


Catharsis

by valammar



Series: Sing With Me [8]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age - Various Authors, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Body Worship, Chubby Inquisitor, Cullen's POV, Depression, Early Relationship, Early in Canon, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fanfiction as Therapy, Flashbacks, Fluff, Gore, Graphic Description, Grief/Mourning, Inspired by Real Events, Lyrium Withdrawal, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Plus Size Inquisitor, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-Trespasser, Revenge, plus sized inquisitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-05-19 14:53:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 35,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14875877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valammar/pseuds/valammar
Summary: When a horrible crime is committed, Neb forsakes her oath to see the offender pay in blood. Cullen isn't convinced he can stop her.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: Reading "Salt In Your Wounds" is not required, but will provide additional character information. If you just want fluff, read chapters 3, 6 and 9.
> 
> This piece is written for an audience of one (myself), but my therapist encouraged me to share it as part of my recovery. Please note that this will contain graphic depictions based on my own very real life and that because this is written in grief, it is neither Good nor Conventional. This exists purely as a cathartic exercise.

She was most beautiful in the late afternoon, Cullen thought when the low-hanging sun highlighted the frizzy strands in her laissez-faire locks. That was about the time she'd shaken off her morning fatigue since the poor woman could never nail down a sufficient sleep schedule.

Neb sipped her tea—some fragrant, floral concoction—and sighed contentedly on her daily self-bestowed break away from the clinic. Always wearing a smile, her eyes beamed with newly formed lines at the far corners.

She had a careworn face. If Cullen followed some of those lines back like a trail, it would lead to smiling laughter. Not all of them, though. Some lines drove back to a wild place of strife, of fear and tumult. He admired her in silence. Neb opened her tin of Antivan sweets and took a bite out of a small truffle. The caramel center stretched, and she made a game of pulling it as far away from her body as she could.

He reached forward and pinched the strand in two. "There. I've freed you."

She laughed and covered her mouth to chew. "From the bondage of chocolate? I'm afraid our attachment goes far deeper than that."

He kissed the top of her head.

"Cullen, go bathe now. You're dripping sweat all over me."

"Sorry," he said, feeling perspiration cascade down his back in heavy rivulets. Instead of careworn, he was merely beginning to feel older. Cullen lamented his twenties when exercise took exceedingly less effort.

While she tended to the infirm, he made himself useful as a steward to the land. While she greeted the weary and weather-worn at the door, solid oak draped in amethyst quartz that clacked and danced and covered the room in a cascade of violet light, he tended to her herb garden, chopped wood and saw to the animals. The cats that paraded the clinic were self-sufficient enough, but Cullen had just returned from running Neb's Friesian, a spry gelding gifted to her from the most excellent stable in Ostwick as a token of goodwill. All the while, his mabari Griffon followed in hot pursuit.

"Lady Trevelyan?" A young woman entered the kitchen from the clinic. Lottie, from the merchant city of Riverden. As his wife's prolific abilities gained renown across South Reach, she quickly became overburdened and eventually sought an apprentice. Cullen remembered the day that the raven-haired girl arrived on their doorstep, eager to learn the ways of herbs and medicine.

"Yes, Lottie?"

"Apologies for interrupting your tea, ma'am, but that farmhand won't let me see to his arm. Said he wants a healer, not a pup."

Neb shook her head and gulped the dregs of her cup. She had always been one to take frequent interruptions in stride. "That's quite all right. You remember how to do it, don't you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Neb smiled, turned, and tightened the strap of her prosthetic across her shoulder. The gleaming steel hand sprang to life as it fed off her mana. "Good. I'll hold that old fool down but leave the rest of the treatment to you. We'll show him who’s the pup by the time we're done."

When the two of them departed in a fit of giggles, Cullen grabbed some linens and a clean shirt from the armoire and made his way to the spring out back. Griffon greeted him from his usual resting place in the shade.

"Tired yourself out already, eh?"

The mabari's face had whitened with age. The dog rose, stiffly, to greet Cullen.

"At ease," he said. The old dog sat. Cullen carried on, knowing full well the beast would follow him anyway.

The small brook flowed adjacent to the property, providing an endless supply of fresh water. A few quick, cold splashes were enough to remove the grit from the road and the stink of horse dung from his person for the time being. The frigid droplets chilled and reinvigorated him after an exhausting morning's labor. Griffon tore his way across the steady current, sending fat droplets of water helter-skelter.

When he crossed the house's threshold once more, he heard a wail from the clinic. Peering inside, he saw Neb holding the man in a seated position by the torso. Neb’s weighty prosthetic held him in place while Lottie stood in front of him, her almond eyes beaming with unfeigned mirth.

"Judging by the swelling, it looks like the left arm is broken along with three fingers," Neb said.

"Took a bit of a tumble in the orchard, did you?" asked Lottie.

"Ladder came right out from under me." He winced when Lottie's fingers grazed the injured ligament.

"All right, I want to start with the small bones," she said, taking his hand in hers.

The farmhand glanced up at Neb. "I still don't see why you can't do—fuck!"

Cullen heard a twig-snap as Lottie swiftly jerked one of his fingers into place.

"Beautiful, Lottie!" Neb cooed while squeezing her flailing patient to keep him still. "See? Your hand is in good hands."

Crack after crack, she made light work of setting and bandaging his bones. When she was done, Lottie dipped a cloth in a bowl of water and began wiping at the man's brow in the way a mother would tend to a child's fever. "You did well."

"Cursed witches, both of you," he rasped.

"Now, Lottie," said Neb, completely unaffected by his raving. "What's our remedy for broken bones?"

"A sling. Prophet's laurel and spindleweed to ward off infection, ingested twice daily. Elfroot tonic to reduce inflammation and provoke mending. Oh! Can he eat?"

Neb smiled with pride. "Broth for today, soft foods tomorrow. He'll be hungry by then."

"I'm hungry now," the man said.

"Of that, I've no doubt, but you're also in shock and likely to vomit from the pain. Don't worry," she looked at her protégé with a wink. "Lottie will sneak you something when I'm not looking, anyway."

Cullen left the women to their business and stepped into the kitchen. He braced himself and went to the larder to gather ingredients for the evening meal. Neb’s propensity for frost magics kept their food stock perpetually cold, and the temperature shift inflamed his senses. Proud Fereldan he was, Cullen relished the chilly air—but only when it crept upon him gradually, and over several months. With an armful of parsnips and shallots, he emerged from the narrow room with a link of sausages strung over his shoulder like a street peddler. After a few years of well-fed bliss at the hands of a hired cook, boredom brought him to seek new outlets, and as part of a primal need for self-reliance, he took it upon himself to master the art of the frying pan.

He sliced the parsnip into coins and added them to the sizzling shallots. While he chopped and stirred, the afternoon sun dimmed under cloud cover. Rain tonight, he thought. Neb and Lottie emerged from the clinic when the smell of butter and cured meat intermingled with that of clouds and twilight.

They’d made a ritual of sharing dinner before Lottie returned to town for the evening. Cullen said little. He ate in silence while watching the two women decompress by sharing stories of their day. More often than not, the meal became a game of questions and answers.

“Lady Trevelyan, ma’am?”

“Yes, Lottie?”

Lottie paused. “That farmhand. You told him you’d accept a bushel of apples as payment.”

“I did.”

"You sometimes take coin but barter for others. How do you price your services to ensure a profit?"

A small chuckle escaped Neb's lips. "My, but you are a merchant's daughter. Being the former Inquisitor guaranteed a lifetime of comforts. We provide a civil service, nothing more."

Lottie’s eyes beamed in surprise. They continued their evening ritual over dinner, with Neb’s apprentice drinking in her tutor’s wisdom like a precious ichor. She was receptive, eager, and as astute as she was inquisitive. Cullen didn't know how he'd manage an apprentice interrogating him at every moment's peace, but his wife's patience knew no bounds. She sounded utterly relaxed and at ease.

"Have you ever had to talk down a raving patient? I’m not sure I’d know what to do.”

"The frantic speak a language I know well," said Neb.

"Which is?" Lottie asked.

Neb smiled fondly as her eyes darted to the harp at the corner of the parlor. It stood as a symbol; a reminder of the inevitability of change. Maker knows her life has been rife with it. Her mechanical hand twitched as if it remembered the joy of plucking its strings. Unfortunately, the contraption proved too heavy and limited for such a delicate task.

"The Maker's language: music."

Lottie smiled cheekily and turned to Cullen. "Legends say it was the Inquisitor's song that soothed the troubled heart of her Commander. Is that true?"

Cullen's ears flushed.

 

* * *

Neb and Cullen saw the prying Lottie off early to skirt the evening storm. Neb insisted she stay, offering to lodge for the night.

"It's only three miles—I'll be all right," Lottie said. "Besides, I've made plans for the evening."

"Not galivanting with some mysterious inamorato, are you?" Neb goaded. Then, her mouth gaped when Lottie's eyes fell shyly to the floor.

"Lottie! You didn't tell me! Now you have to stay."

She shook her head. "You'll hear about it tomorrow. Now, I should be off, or else I'll arrive a sopping wet mess."

They said their farewells and resumed their evening duties. The sky's two porcelain moons were veiled by obsidian storm clouds. Cullen shelved the last set of dishes and met his wife in their bedroom. She sat in front of her vanity mirror, massaging aromatic serums into her skin.

"Lottie's really coming along in her training," Neb said. "She'll make an excellent healer."

"Only because she has an excellent teacher," he added, stripping off his shirt and breeches and making his way to the bath chamber. Cullen scrubbed the earth from his skin, allowing the warmth and steam to ease his aging physique.

"You went silent at dinner," she called to him. "I hope Lottie didn't overwhelm you today."

"No," he said. "Lottie's curious, but I know you love that about her. I was merely surprised, nothing more. I know our union did not have the most normal start. Still, the idea of it becoming a legend by the time we're forty is rather daunting."

"Rather a legend than a sleazy Orlesian ballad, no?"

"I'm sure Tethras has already seen to our being a sleazy work of literature," he groaned.

"Of that, I'm certain," Neb replied.

He paused and listened to the wind catch the leaves outside. The rain would roll in soon.

"Ten years, Neb" he said, ruminating on how long it had been since they'd met. Since they'd saved the world. He thought back on their very first kiss, the very first moments of pulling her against him so intimately; of her soft mouth, soft cheeks, soft hair, soft breaths, and those soft eyes looking back at him with such shock. A realization that in spite of every possible odd, something strange and beautiful was burgeoning between them. And Maker, had he felt it, too.

"Yes, and in a couple more I'll have put up with you longer than anyone you've ever known—even your own mother."

He laughed so hard he snorted, and Neb kept quiet while he finished bathing.

Once clean and dried, he followed a clear trajectory to the bed and relaxed into the lush feather mattress, comfortably nude. Neb still sat on her vanity stool, running a brush through her hair. She'd grown it long past her shoulders, and it tumbled in fine, glossy waves. His own, however, seemed to grow thinner by the day.

He admired her movements, watching the gentle flex of her shoulders, the subtle rise, and fall of her chest, the sweeping curves of her hips and belly.

"You're staring, again," she teased.

"I find myself unable to look away," he said.

"Hmph. Flatterer."

"You truly are radiant, you know."

She set the brush down and stood, giving her hair one last tousle with her hand. "My, you are full of compliments today."

"If I weren't, you'd have no reason to keep me around."

She laughed lightly and made her way toward him. "True, Lottie's new beau might have a younger, more attractive brother. It could be high time for an update."

"I am last decade's model. For all I know, you may well commission Dagna to construct a new enchanted mechanical husband, one with a thick head of hair."

"Thick-headed he would be," she said as her body softly glided over him. Cullen sat up against the headboard and lazily ran his fingers over her thighs, "and too shiny. I prefer my men a little grizzled."

"So you do think me dull and bald, then?" he goaded, smiling shamelessly.

"I think you're an ass," Neb said, smiling back. "With that attitude, I might send Dagna an advance in the morning."

Cullen leaned forward to kiss her properly, taking her full lower lip between his and sucking gently. She hummed in pleasure, and that sweet, soft sigh was enough to rouse him.

"But would a machine know how to kiss you like that?" he asked, his voice a low whisper.

"Mmm. No." Her long, dark eyelashes fluttered closed. Maker, she was breathtaking.

"Then have I earned my keep, my lady?"

"Yes," she said, straddling him wider, "this model suits me just fine."

Cullen could feel static spring under his skin. It tingled down his spine and filled his fingers with lightning. One hand splayed across the breadth of her outer thigh while the other clutched the small of her back, holding her body in a delicate arch as she slowly rose. His eyes darted to her lips, and she instinctively licked them. When she sank down, welcoming him, the first crackle of a storm rippled across the heavens.

The way she moved was everything. Breathless and vibrant and beautiful and fashioned from pure divine light. This was her real power. Cullen pressed his back against the oak headboard. A moan escaped him as the hand on her back wrapped itself in her hair. With his free arm, he pulled her closer, eager for more contact, pushing against her so she could feel the erratic beat of his heart against her breast. She tightened around him, setting his body alight. He would swear by his love of the Maker that he’d never expected to be blessed with this magnificent woman as his wife.

She laid over him amidst rumpled sheets when the rain began to fall. Neb kissed his neck and chest idly, smiling languidly as they basked in the peace and comfort their humble, sleepy life provided. This was safety. This was love.

“I love you,” he told her. “I know I don’t say it as often as you deserve, but I do.”

Neb grinned, her eyelids flickering dreamily as she tipped her head to plant a gentle kiss on his chin. “You say it enough.”

As the thunder roared, they drifted into sleep, glowingly satisfied.

 

* * *

 

Birdsong heralded the sunrise, and Cullen awoke to see Neb standing in her rumpled linen nightdress before the mirror. There, she gazed at herself, studying the gnarled scar on her left arm where the Mark had been severed, just beneath her elbow. Then, she turned and paid particular attention to her right arm, flexing and bending each finger with precision. He heard her sigh.

Usually, she'd risen from bed before sunlight flooded the room, and he'd awake to her scent lingering on the bedsheets as she tended to her overnight patients. Cullen wondered how many times, in the solitude of dawn, she practiced this ritual self-examination.

Gingerly, he slipped from the bed and scooped her robe from the floor. She didn't turn to look at him when he approached, but her reflection met his gaze as he opened the garment and helped her shrug into it. He reached around her waist, hugging her from behind as he knotted the sash.

Cullen made quick work of dressing himself before returning to assist Neb with her prosthetic. He slid it over her shoulders with tender care, slowly securing each strap. He knew how damned heavy the thing was, how great it strained her, and how Dagna struggled to build a contraption that was both durable and lightweight. When the lyrium in the device sensed her magic the hand jerked in stiff, segmented movements.

Once fastened, Neb turned to face him, her honey eyes glistening. Cullen instinctively cupped her cheek, a touch that comforted them both, and rested his forehead against hers. He channeled his affection as an act of contrition. He couldn't change the past, but he could be there for her now. They didn't speak; they didn't have the need to.

That was when they heard a loud knock from outside.

Neb composed herself by smoothing the skirt of her robe. Interruptions were to be expected, though rarely this early.

Cullen nodded at her, and the two of them parted, he to the kitchen to prepare the morning's porridge and Neb to the door.

Disposed to be gracious, she behaved as she always did by pulling open the door, causing the chimes to sing merrily with the motion, and greeting the visitor with a ready smile.

"Yes?" Neb said. Cullen looked up from the stovetop to see a figure in the doorway. A woman, all manner of tiny and impossibly thin. She wore her black hair cropped at her ears like Seeker Cassandra and wrung her hands so tightly in front of her they'd blanched. Though age and size divided them, Cullen found the resemblance uncanny:

She looked exactly like Lottie.

"You're—" the woman croaked, unable to speak.

"I'm the healer Trevelyan, yes."

She opened and closed her mouth as if she struggled to form words. "You must—I—"

"There, there," she said softly. "Won't you come inside? We're about to break our fast." Neb stepped from the doorway to allow the woman in. She crossed the threshold, nervous as a wounded fawn.

A fourth presence entered in front of her, foreboding and ominous.

"You must be exhausted. Did you come from the town, or out in the country?"

"Once," she said.

Neb shut the door behind her, equally cautious and apprehensive. The small woman startled at the sight of him by the stove. Cullen stepped away from the pot and looked to Neb for her cue to exit.

"Pay my husband no mind," Neb said, indicating he could stay. "He's stern but means well. He'll serve you a bowl of porridge if you like."

"I—No." The woman shook her head with intention. "No, there is something you must know."

"Of course, we're always here to help. Could we start with a name?" Neb asked, smiling warmly.

"...Lottie," the woman rasped.

Neb's eyes flashed, and realization washed over her face. "You're Lottie's mother."

She nodded.

Neb's smile fled, highlighting all the anguished lines around her eyes and mouth. "Maker, what's happened? Is it Lottie? Does she need help?"

Lottie's mother bit back a sob. "She never came home."

They both could tell there was more. Cullen and Neb waited eagerly, desperately. The woman brought her hand to her mouth, and she trembled through muffled words. "The night guard found her." Her gasps turned into sobs as she struggled between words. "Her head was—they killed her. They killed my baby."

"Maker's blood."

Cullen looked back at Neb, who was fiercely shaking her head.

The woman burst into tears, and her wails rattled Cullen down to his bones. A sound he'd never forget.

Neb remained silent.

 

* * *

 

_"The ninth sacred mountain upon which rests_  
_The mortal dust of Our Lady ascended_  
_Whole into the heavens, to be given high honor_  
_In the Realm of Dreams forever._  
_And around it, a chorus of spirits sang:_  
_'Whatsoever passes through the fire_  
_Is not lost, but made eternal;_  
_As air can never be broken nor crushed,_  
_The tempered soul is everlasting!'"_

The flames rose high above the pyre as Sister Amelia recited the Chant. Word spread across the river valley that the glass merchant's daughter had been found butchered with her killer on the lamb. Riverden was a close-knit community of like-minded entrepreneurs, who all showed up to pay their respects to one of their kin.

Cullen stood at a fair distance from the crowd, unnoticed, with Lottie's mother at his side. Neb appointed him as the woman's keeper before the funeral. He glanced downward, half expecting her to wail once they carted her daughter's bandaged body to the funeral site, the silhouette noticeably lacking a head. The sight nearly brought his own legs to buckle. To his surprise, she remained stiff and still, her clenched jawline highlighting the gauntness of her cheeks. Once again, he was struck by how impossibly fragile she looked.

Neb’s cloaked figure stood at the forefront. She wore her grief like a second skin, and it hung heavily over her weary bones. When Amelia finished her passage, she addressed his wife.

“And now, Lady Trevelyan has prepared a homage in the form of a song.”

Pulling the hood of her cloak away, she stepped forward and faced her audience. Emotions ran high, and Cullen was sure she’d never played to this somber of a crowd. Nevertheless, she pulled her shoulders back in a courtly posture and took a breath.

She opened with a single, wordless, pure, sustained note, an effervescent and featherlight thing that rang like a gong above the crackle of the fire. Longer than Cullen thought humanly possible, so long he questioned whether mages lacked the same requirements for breathing. As she held the note, she seemed to draw its power from the soil she stood upon. From the grey sky above her. Then, as abruptly as it started, it stopped. The silence left him so surprised it was as if the very air shook itself off and looked around in bemusement. He peered down to Lottie’s mother who seemed to have taken the opportunity to wander off. By the Void, he cursed. Scanning the crowd, he didn’t see any sign of movement.

But finally, Neb’s song began in full and left him in such a duel of bliss and agony that he abandoned his search. Even in pain, her voice beckoned. She sang a somber melody of elegant, slow, chilling sweeps. It was as if they’d been transported to the dead of winter. The song continued, wistful, low and lamenting. Behind her, the pyre crackled and crumbled in the heat. The embers spiraled high into the atmosphere, carried on Neb’s final, soaring note.

And again, more silence. Cullen hadn’t even listened to the lyrics. The music haunted and stunned him so entirely that he couldn’t pause to analyze its components. In any other time, he was sure such a haunting refrain would have drawn a mob of clamorous ovation. Instead, with her song signaling the end of the service, the crowd turned and sauntered off in different directions, eager to enter the next phase of life after the pain of loss.

Three men approached her, and they shared a brief conversation. Her father and brothers, Cullen gathered, murmuring words of thanks. The men remained, but Neb took a parting glance at the pyre before marching toward him in heavy, solemn steps.

"I lost sight of her mother," was all he could think to say. "I'm sorry."

"Probably needed to be alone. The poor woman grieves." Neb looked to the darkened sky as a misty rain formed droplets in her hair. "The entire city grieves."

"It seems that way," he replied.

"The man who did this is still out there."

"For Lottie's sake, he should be brought to justice."

"You agree? Then you know what we must do," she said.

By this point in their marriage, he did. Cullen learned, long ago, that his wife would never stray from mercy. Neb would see to the grieving family's comfort and pursue legal justice through appropriate channels. He began by organizing their strategy. "We rally the village in support, perhaps collect a donation as recompense. Contact the local advocate to arrange for a—"

"No."

Cullen halted. "No?"

She turned to him, and Cullen saw the pyre's red blaze dancing in her gimlet eyes. Her expression contorted in a storm of fury. Her chest rose and fell sharply as she drew breath. When she spoke, he felt his face burn hot, and his hands grow cold.

" _We_ have to find him. And when we do, I'm going to kill him."


	2. Chapter 2

There were aspects that Cullen missed in the simplicity of a soldier's life. True, the rigidity and regulation left little room for individuality, for independent thought. But he always knew his place. Then again, that was a narrow perspective. There were heavy burdens. If called upon, he'd be required to execute any command, even those that went against his better judgment. He ran his thumb over his mouth, remembering every time he obeyed an order to the letter. And how they'd all ended in blood. The scar along his upper lip showed what following laws could do.

Which is why Neb's command to not interfere with her quest left him in such a state of dismay.

"What of the clinic?" Cullen asked while she finished tightening the laces on her riding leathers.

"I have a healer on loan from Grand Enchanter Vivienne's staff. They will arrive later this morning with a Templar escort to provide services while I'm gone. There should be no trouble."

She motioned to the doorway and Cullen obstructed it, crossing his arms and broadening his shoulders in a show of defiance.

"Cullen," she warned. "You are acting childish."

"You are not yourself."

She lifted her chin in dissent. "My head is clear."

"Seeking vengeance at your own hands? This, from a woman who despises killing? From a woman who vowed to the Maker himself, mind, to do no harm?"

"This is different."

"How? Enlighten me."

She paused, giving an indignant huff. "I don’t expect you to understand."

"I cared for Lottie, too," he said, trying to appeal to her sense of empathy. With any luck, she'd come to her senses.

She turned and concentrated on sorting through her travel sack. "Clearly not enough," she murmured.

"What was that?"

"There was a time when you would have sniffed him out like a wild dog and left him twice as mangled for a smaller offense."

"No," he snapped, "you do not have the right to bring up my past indiscretions. This entire plan is on you."

"I am the Inquisitor. I once resided in judgment over these lands. You have to endorse my decision."

"Neb, I am not certain I can. You are making me wary." She had to understand his predicament.

She took an angry step toward him. "Well, if you weren't such a stubborn ass, perhaps you wouldn't feel so wary."

He felt his own incredulous expression molding his face. "So, I'm childish and stubborn, now? It's better than being out of my Void-ridden mind!"

"Did you just accuse me of madness?"

He huffed. "Maybe. Maker forbid, if you'd listen to me for once in your life I would not have to resort to such tactics."

"Oh, yes, the great Commander Cullen. Always the voice of reason! Maker knows the docile, naïve Nebula Trevelyan could barely tie her left shoe without his careful guidance."

"Now who's acting childish?"

"You think me foolish and hypocritical."

"Among other things," he spat. He could feel his blood rising, but he would not allow himself to get distracted. This woman. This incredible, powerful, capable, wonderful, beautiful, mesmerizing, infuriating woman. She knew every lever to pull to ignite his brain with anger.

"Well, do not waste your time listing them. I can guess."

"Maker's fucking breath, Neb!"

The room fell silent, his harsh words hanging between them. Neb froze, the grimace stunned from her face. All he could hear was his pulse in his ears as he tried to come to grips with the words he had just spoken. For years, they'd barely so much as raised their voices. Cullen spent so many days practicing patience, modeling himself after the woman he so adored.

How crestfallen he felt, knowing that vulgar beast still lurked inside of him.

Neb adjusted the cloak on her shoulders and fiddled with her harness straps. He knew that she wanted him to leave. He didn’t require a written invitation. If he were any other man, he would have backed out immediately and ventured to Rivain by now.

But Neb was right. He was stubborn.

Neb strode back to her satchel; that long, tight-legged march she used when she was frustrated. He watched her continue sorting her pack, taking stock of medicines and rations. She had a look of determination he hadn't seen since...

Since that day in Josephine's office. When she stood over him, eyes alight, and solemnly swore that she would never betray her morals.

Maker.

"Are you really going alone?" he spoke softly, aware of how pathetic he sounded. His proverbial tail tucked tightly between his legs in self-reproach.

"No," she said, implying that she knew something he did not. "Once Equinor is saddled you will insist on following me. In which case, your tracking skills are welcome. Griffon's too, for that matter."

Cullen pursed his mouth into a fine line. He took a deep breath through his diaphragm and exhaled slowly while he debated with himself. Neb watched him intently.

"All right," he said, defeated.

She nodded. "Your riding leathers are in the bath chamber. I'll ready the horses. Meet me at the gate."

The ensemble sat folded on a stool by the bath like she said. Cullen dressed swiftly and caught his dissonant expression in the mirror. He stood there, watching himself, studying the uncertainty on his own face. There was a time when his speeches inspired an army of thousands. Now, a decade later, he could barely muster the right verbiage to convince his own wife to abandon this uncharacteristic mission and just stay home to grieve, for Maker's sake. Since the news broke, he hadn't even seen the woman shed a tear.

"What are you doing, man?" he asked, holding the futile hope that his reflection could provide a better solution to his current situation. Then he turned his gaze to the wall above the sink where his blade hung from a plaque. It had been so long since he felt the constant comfort of a soldier's weapon at his side. By Andraste's ashes, he sure as the Void needed it now. Gingerly, he plucked it from its resting place and secured it around his hip.

The sword was more substantial than he remembered. Once he tied the throat of his riding cloak, he took a lantern and made his way to the barn where Griffon slumbered peacefully.

The dog raised his head upon hearing his footsteps, milky eyes reflecting in the lantern light. Cullen leaned down to gently rub his velveteen head and ears.

"You there! Sleeping while on guard duty, are we?"

He stroked the dog's lean frame, relishing the safety and comfort his faithful companion always provided. Griffon equally enjoyed the affection and lurched toward Cullen's face with warm laps of his tongue.

"What do you say, old boy? Ready to report for active duty?"

"Bark!"

"Very good. Let's keep a close eye on our dear lady, shall we?"

Griffon gave an affirming chuff and rose to attention. He puffed his chest in a regal stance, a real example of his homeland's imposing symbol.

Like an old habit, Cullen rested his hand at the hilt of his blade and made his way toward the gate where Neb waited, Griffon at his heels.

"Ready?" Neb asked, handing over the reins to his horse.

Cullen turned for one final glance at their cottage, a place that love and tenderness built, unsure of when he'd cross the threshold once more.

"Where you go, I follow," he said.

 

* * *

The two of them arrived at Riverden by sunrise. Their horses slowed, apprehensive of the hustle and bustle of city life. They halted when they reached the market, Riverden's primary source of commerce.

"I know your feelings," Neb said, "but I need to speak with Lottie's family before I begin my search and we can't find them without help."

He sneered. Cullen loathed the market. The streets buzzed with activity, and it was impossible to find a moment's peace. Villagers lost their interest in personal space, and instead, they scrambled, pushed, cried, and crowded like wolves to a boar carcass. The vendors were just as despicable. He saw them each eagerly seeking out the most oblivious person to scam. Cullen leered back at them in an attempt to convey that they were not easy prey.

"Maker, look! It's a real live mabari!"

The sight of Griffon drew the eyes of a group of young boys. The group raced to greet him with boisterous glee, each grasping at his snout, chest, and haunches. If Cullen didn't know better, he'd say the dog prided himself on the attention.

"Pretty lady!" One of them cried, "Why are you here?"

"We've come in search of something quite valuable," said Neb.

"Like rubies?"

"Or wine?"

Cullen smiled at them, for surely, they couldn't be as scheming and duplicitous as their elders.

"I heard you're the Inquisitor and that you have a mountain of gold."

"No, she's not. The inquisitor's old, stupid!" Another scoffed.

"I know someone who sells the finest silks in South Reach," yet another proposed. "I could take you to him."

"Nobody wants to go to your cheating uncle's stall!"

"My uncle is not a cheat! _Your_ father's a cheat and a liar."

With that, they were rapidly squabbling amongst themselves. Youth were not nearly as incorruptible as he thought.

"Children, please!" Neb spoke in a clear, carrying voice. "Before you begin your debate over whose uncle swindled whom, would you be so kind as to direct us to the home of Adolar, the glass merchant?"

"Glass? Glass hasn’t any value, at all!"

Neb nodded, "True, clever boy. We seek something far better than glass."

"What is it?" They leaned their greedy heads forward, and Cullen was convinced they were waiting for a new tip or buyer trend that they could exploit.

"Information," she smiled, her coy eyes squinted. Many stepped back, griping under their breath. Two of them turned and left in a show of disinterest.

"I'll take you there for a copper," a boy petting Griffon offered.

"And I'll stable your horses for two coppers."

Indeed, it seemed that when it came to Riverden, enterprise and opportunity were inbred. Neb reached for her coin purse and pulled out three coppers. Lining them on her fist, she held her hand to her mouth and blew. The magic breath she generated sent the coins glittering into the air. Both children delighted in catching them.

"Lead the way, young gentleman."

They dismounted their horses, and Neb gave the reins to the second boy before following in pursuit of the first. He led them down narrow cobbled roads that reeked of tanning leathers and smelted iron. Riverden was an industrious town of both tradesmen and the peddlers who export their wares.

Before long, they stood at a two-story home of gray stucco and stained wood. Neb gave the boy a kind smile and thanked him before giving the door a firm knock.

No answer.

Neb turned to Cullen with concern. Naturally, she was worried that she may not be able to get in touch with her first lead.

Finally, the door's rusted hinges creaked, and a slender man with thinning black hair and shadows under his eyes stood before them. Cullen recognized him as the older gentleman who spoke with Neb after the funeral.

"L-Lady Trevelyan, ma'am. This is a surprise."

"Adolar," she said, nodding curtly. "May we speak inside?"

The man seemed dazed. The kind of haziness that follows many sleepless nights. Cullen knew the sensation all too well. "Of course. Please, come in."

Cullen peered down at Griffon. The dog took his cue to sit outside, and he let out a wide yawn as his commander entered the home. Adolar led them to the main living area and gestured for them to take a seat. The family lived comfortably, thanks to their membership in the merchant's guild. The sofa beneath him was firm and sturdy. Nicer than his own.

"How are you doing?" Neb voiced with genuine concern.

Adolar hunched forward as if his own shoulders were too massive to hold him. "My boys see to our wares. They find the work a sizable distraction. I, on the other hand...prayer is the only thing that can keep my mind occupied these days."

She gave a soft nod, and Cullen knew she would not pry into his grief any further. "May I ask, how is your wife? Is she here?"

The man's body immediately tensed. He stayed silent for a long pause, digesting the question. "My...?"

Neb continued. "She stood with us at the funeral. She was so devastated she disappeared during the ceremony to grieve, poor thing."

Upon hearing those words, Adolar raised his weary head.

The baffled look on his face told Cullen that something was very, very wrong.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude

He stood in his office, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to take some of the pressure off of his eyes. Cassandra had already given him as much pain medication as she could order before the surgeon grew suspicious. There were two flaws in his plan to wean himself off lyrium: the migraines, and pigheadedly insisting on telling only one living soul about it. He had an image to uphold as a military representative. He couldn’t risk scuttlebutt in the barracks over the Commander’s frequent trips to the healer when he was to remain a symbol of peak physical health.

“Tell her,” Cassandra pleaded—or rather, demanded. She’d shut the doors and snuffed the candles, keeping the light in the room dim. The sounds from the courtyard below were a muffled blur. All he could do now was wait this one out.

Cullen groaned. “This is too personal of a matter. I would prefer that my interactions with the Inquisitor remain strictly professional.”

She scoffed. “Are you still going on about that Fallow Mire business?” Cullen couldn’t see her with his eyes shut, but her scowl bore into him nonetheless. “As her general, you cannot avoid her forever.”

“I do not avoid her, Lady Cassandra.”

“Is that so? Then tell me the efforts you have made to extend this most sympathetic olive branch.”

“I…invited her to play a game of chess in the garden,” he said.

“And how long ago was that?”

“Only a few,” he paused, “weeks.”

“The Divine herself, may she be at peace, was less gracious than you,” she said, sounding sardonic. “Cullen, if I may be frank, I will tell you this: Inquisitor Trevelyan is not like you. She is not made of facts and figures and probabilities. True, she is smart and resourceful, but she is emotional. She appreciates sympathy and condolences. She responds well to humility. I can assure you that sharing your burden will only earn her respect.”

She had a point. Since their last private encounter in Josephine's study, the Inquisitor favored him when he chose a gentler approach. He sighed. “Very well. I shall tell her.”

“Good," she gave a firm nod, "because I have informed her that you requested an audience with her in a few minutes.”

The piercing pain at the base of his skull conflated. “I beg your pardon?”

Cassandra crossed her arms in the way a scolding mother would. “Cullen, you cannot endure this alone, and I will not watch you suffer in silence. The surgeon is convinced that my 'excessive sporadic pain’ is a result of black bile and insists that I have my spleen removed. I do not know how much longer I can feign illness for you before she declares me medically unfit for duty.”

She smiled, but Cullen could tell that her patience wore thin.

“I understand. Then there is one matter I wish to keep between us,” Cullen said.

The two of them startled at the shuffle of footsteps followed by a knock at the door. Inquisitor Trevelyan was punctual as ever. Cassandra turned to him, her voice softer.

“What is it that you wish?” Cassandra asked.

“Any sign, any doubt you may have that I can…conquer this, I request that you order my resignation personally.”

“Why me?”

“Because you are the only one I trust enough to replace me if I fail.”

“Cullen!” she hissed. “Have you gone mad?”

Inquisitor Trevelyan knocked on the door again.

“One moment!” Cullen shouted before leaning toward Cassandra’s ear. “I am certain that I want this. Please just—keep it a secret. Please.”

Cassandra furled her brow in consternation. “If those are your true feelings, I will support you. But so will she. Be honest, Commander.”

“I shall try. And Cassandra?”

“What?”

“Would you be able to secure another potion from the surgeon? For tonight?”

Cassandra huffed, shaking her head as she took her leave out the opposite door. The headache swelled further. It was the stress, he told himself. The burden of wanting and fearing and reports and sleepless nights and a Void-ridden hole in the sky all concentrated into a tiny marble in his head, the pain causing the state of nausea and disorientation he currently found himself in. He took a deep inhale, through the diaphragm, and released it slowly through his nostrils. He rested his hands on his desk for better stability.

“Enter,” he said.

The iron door squeaked open and then she entered. She took cautious steps, lining one foot in front of the other like a cat balanced on a beam.

“You wished to speak with me, Commander?” she asked.

“I—yes.” Maker’s bleeding eyeballs, his skull was about to burst. “As the Inquisition’s leader, there is something you must hear.”

She smiled with a subtle apprehension. Great, the commander thought, she knew he'd been avoiding her. “If it’s important, I’m willing to listen.”

“It is. Thank you.” Breathe, man. “As you know, Ambassador Montilyet has secured us a viable supply of lyrium. Rations are distributed to mages and templars—including mine. I, however, have not been taking it.”

She stayed silent for a moment, studying him, digesting his words. Cullen prepared himself for several reactions, from scolding his poor timing to anger over wasted rations. Then:

“...Are you in pain?” she asked, with such a lilt of concern it broke his heart. Of course, only someone with her advanced level of empathy would immediately fret over his well-being.

The anguished groan he made gave him away. He clenched his eyes shut. “Just headaches, nothing more.”

“Allow me.” He heard the clack of her boots circling the table. Following the sound with his ears was enough to give him vertigo. The dizziness knocked him sideways. His eyes sprang open, he watched her grab his bicep and pull him back into a standing position with swift reflexes.

“I’m sorry, Inquisitor, really it’s—”

“Hush. Just breathe. And I've told you to call me Neb,” she ordered as she moved to stand in front of him. Cullen tried to relax his back, but as her fingertips grazed his hair, he felt his shoulders tense. He hadn’t the faintest idea of what she was planning to do, but the all-consuming pain weakened his resistance to touch. He kept his eyes closed and braced himself for the worst.

Her delicate fingers, two on each of his temples, gently dug into his skin in small, rhythmic circles.

The relief was immediate. Blood rushed to his head like it was eager to fill the void the pain left behind. As her fingers worked, her thumbs ran along the top of his skull until they found a third pressure point and kneaded it.

“Maker, that’s incredible,” he groaned. “How do you know this?"

"You don't reach the title of Enchanter in spirit healing without learning a thing or two about migraines," she said.

"It's marvelous. The nausea is still there, but the pain..."

"...will return once I stop."

Cullen allowed the tension to seep from his neck and shoulders. As coherent thought flooded back into his brain, he realized how shockingly intimate of a gesture this was, especially coming from one so highly ranked. If he'd so much as received a head pat from a female commanding officer in the Order, they'd have both spent the next month scrubbing chamber pots after being reported for fraternization.

Cracking one eye open, he peeked at her and gauged her expression. She looked focused if not a little blasé. Like it was an everyday routine for her to provide scalp massages to members of the Inquisition. Like she was a true practitioner of medicine, and he was just another patient. She used no magic, no elixir, only a healer's knowing touch to replace a tremendous pain with an incredible, blissful ache.

"Then I'm grateful for a moment's respite," he said.

"I'm glad."

We should spend more time together. The words nearly drove Cullen into a state of shock, not to mention her blatant attempt to fail the chess match. He studied her, that fateful day in the gardens. He noted the telling crease at the corner of her mouth when her hand passed over an advantageous piece deliberately in favor of another less desirable one. That day, she'd tried to earn his good graces when he should have been groveling for hers. He could only speculate, but perhaps she decided to appeal to his love of victory as Cassandra encouraged him to call to her respect for kindness.

Few individuals fascinated him, but no one left him as perplexed and beguiled as the woman who came into his office at Cassandra’s behest and immediately began massaging his head. The more she shared with him, the more time they spent together, the more he realized he was out of his depth. He'd had partners, he'd known complex women, he wasn't unfamiliar with women's needs, but when it came to Neb Trevelyan, his mind drew a blank.

“Have you had them long?” Neb asked.

“The headaches?”

“Yes.”

“No, they’ve only become a recent burden.” His gut lurched when he realized the implications of those words. “Not too burdensome, mind. I promise I do not allow it to affect my ability to—”

“'To fulfill my duty as your Commander,'” she said in a deep, mocking tone, complete with an imitation of his Fereldan accent. Cullen looked down at her. Was he being reprimanded? A tiny smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, and he understood she was teasing him.

“Maker’s breath, is that what you think I sound like?”

She chuckled quietly. “Sometimes. Other times I think you just sound like an ass.”

He bristled. “I deserve that.”

Cullen knew she earned the right to take small cuts at his demeanor, but there was a conviviality in her jabs. He might even call it chummy.

“You needn’t worry, Cullen. I trust that I can always depend on you to get your work done.”

She pressed her thumbs to his temples and relocated her fingers to the back of his head where the pressure was most potent. Cullen instinctively leaned his head forward, allowing her greater access to the base of his skull.

“I think it’s brave—what you’re doing,” she said.

Perhaps it was the head rush, but he felt his face and ears grow hot. “Thank you...Neb.”

At the sound of her name, Neb halted her motions. As if hearing it gave her the same modest thrill as it gave him for saying it. The pain instantly welled up behind his eyes, blinding him in a matter of seconds. Cullen could tell she realized she'd stopped, for she resumed her ministrations with a compensatory vigor. A tiny thought, some meddlesome pin needle of mischief, pierced his thoughts. He wondered how she'd react if he placed a hand over hers in a show of gratitude. Inappropriate, yes, but no more inappropriate than what she was doing now. Euphoric as it felt, she was still the Inquisitor and him, the leader of her armed forces.

If she misinterpreted the gesture, he could be putting them in a situation that was awkward at least and would get him demoted to a stable hand at worst. In all likelihood, it would surprise her into stopping again, and the debilitating pain would creep back. It was a lose-lose-lose scenario.

So he didn’t, as a man made of facts, figures, and probabilities.

"We humans," she started, "we tend to see our lives as linear, don't we?"

Cullen pondered the idea. Of late, he hadn't had enough opportunity to dwell in the realm of philosophy. Between restoring order in Kirkwall to assuming a role in the Inquisition, Cullen had to remain a man of action, quick of mind. "Amid all the chaos, it's comforting to commit to a straight line," he mused.

"True, but it denies the important fact that it's all a façade."

"Undoubtedly. Maker knows I've experienced enough change to last a lifetime. I always thought I'd remain a templar, live a life of duty. A quiet, forgettable existence of service."

"And yet you decided to forego lyrium. May I ask why?"

"A lot...a lot..." A low growl formed in his throat as he struggled to speak. He should tell her everything. She'd shared so much of her life with him. But damn him to the Void, the words would not come. "A lot happened. I decided to follow a new path, one not bound by code and protocol. Free me from a proverbial gilded cage."

"So, the Commander has secrets? You know how to make a woman curious."

"That's not a line I'm accustomed to hearing."

Maker, she actually laughed at that, a lilted featherlight sound that made his chest flutter.

“I will not pry. I know you lack my propensity for self-disclosure.”

“It’s not that.” He wanted to tell her. She had told him everything about her past. She bared her deepest regrets, showing no fear or hesitation. But unlike her wounds, he still felt deep and fresh and festering beneath a skin unprepared to bleed. “The lyrium…it’s the first step. I can’t. Not yet.”

“Say no more, just remember that you have the Inquisitor’s support. Let me know if there is anything you need.”

His own arm betrayed him. Before he caught on to its plotting, it had already raised itself while his hand, that double-crossing schemer, revealed its identity as an accomplice when it cupped itself over hers.

Neb’s fingers stopped, but the shock of his actions provided an overwhelming distraction. He opened his eyes to see hers had grown wide and her dappled cheeks glowed a shade of pink. He had to think fast to save face, so he took a long step back, separating them.

“I…appreciate it, Inquisitor. More than you could possibly realize. Now, if you don’t mind—”

“Yes! I should be off. You need rest,” her cadence was brisk as she tugged and straightened her sleeves. Her gaze fell to the floor.

Now you’ve gone and done it, he cursed himself. You made it awkward.

Cullen’s eyes focused their attention on a particularly dull report about the granary stores at Caer Bronach. His ears followed her boots to the door. It opened with a creak, and she stepped through. He eagerly awaited the sound of it closing shut, but the noise didn’t come.

“Commander Cullen?” she asked.

Neb’s head leaned in from behind the doorframe, her chestnut waves tumbling over her shoulder. “Yes, Inquisitor Neb Trevelyan?”

“We like to think that we’re not given a choice in this life, but we always have one. It so happens that the better decision is rarely the easier one.”

Maker, but she was wise. She openly defied her moniker as the Herald of Andraste, but as his headache ebbed in the quiet darkness of the room, he had to wonder if those droves of faithful weren’t so far off. As he tried to concentrate on his work, he could not get her words out of his mind, nor her sweet, gentle laughter.

That evening, the door to his office swung open, and Cullen jumped guiltily as if he’d been caught doing something wrong.

“Cullen,” Cassandra entered, carrying another vial of medicine. “You’re looking better.”

“Yes, I am feeling much better.”

“Well,” she huffed, “it seems your last dosage did the trick and I had no need to toil my afternoon with the surgeon, succumbing to all manner of diagnostic tests.”

Actually, it was the Inquisitor who did the trick, but Cullen did not have it in him to tell her otherwise.


	4. Chapter 4

Cullen didn’t consider himself easy to surprise. He'd seen it all: a tower teeming with abominations, a qunari arishok staging a political coup, a Chantry exploding, a stark raving Knight-Commander turning to stone, ancient darkspawn emerging from the bowels of the earth, demons falling from the sky, a mutated Templar army—and then he turned thirty.

But the look on Adolar’s face was something he’d never expected. His features grew funeral, his brown eyes hollow. It raised gooseflesh on Cullen’s skin, shivering and sharp beneath his leathers.

“My wife,” the man repeated in a quiet baritone. Adolar looked as if he were gripping at the slippery edges of memory and vainly trying not to fall into a pit of misery. “That’s not possible.”

Neb turned to Cullen, and he watched her pleasantry wither away. She looked dumbstruck.

“On the morning after Lottie’s death, she came to our door. She said that Lottie never came home. She—”

“Lady Trevelyan,” he interrupted. He brought a hand to his throat like he’d just felt the touch of a noose. “Mae—my wife—has been dead for nearly twenty years.”

The two of them went silent. Shock blossomed through Cullen’s body as he tried to piece the last few weeks’ events together in eidetic detail. He felt lost, adrift on a hazy sea.

They bid Lottie farewell. At some point on a stormy summer night, the poor girl met a gruesome fate. The morning after, they heard a knock at the door. He recalled her, frantic and frail, flitting about like a moth in a bell jar. Days later, he’d accompanied a grieving mother on the hill of Riverden’s cemetery. No, he reassured himself. There hadn’t been any mistaking Lottie’s resemblance to the older woman’s once she entered their home. There was a more significant picture waiting to be assembled, but the pieces felt just out of reach.

“How?” Neb asked, her voice low and solemn.

Adolar rested his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in his hands.

“On the road, not long after Lottie was born. Bandits, varghests—we never knew. She was expected to arrive at her mother’s with the baby in tow. Some travelers discovered Lottie left behind in the carriage. They found Mae’s blood. Tattered cloth. And the scattered strands of her glass bead necklace.”

“Andraste’s tears, Adolar, forgive me. There must have been some misunderstanding. The woman claimed to be her—was it another relative, perhaps?”

A tense silence blanketed the room. Cullen could hear the din of commerce outside: men soberly discussing market values and probable barters, the echo of footsteps from solitary passersby, then, for a few moments, absolute nothingness. The space felt uncomfortably cold, even though winter was months away.

“Leave,” Adolar said, scornful.

“I meant no offense.”

“You enter my home and tell me that my dead wife stood at your doorstep when my only daughter’s ashes have not yet cooled. It’s a heresy.”

“Adolar, please. We came to find information about Lottie’s killer, nothing more.”

“Enough!” Adolar stood with broad shoulders. His patrician face spoke with a carefully bred sense of wealth and command. “Do not incense me further, Lady Trevelyan. I may have tolerated you due to Lottie's proclivities, but from this moment on, consider our relationship forfeit.”

Neb watched him for a moment longer. The discouraged drop in her shoulders communicated that her composure was waning. Cullen’s instinct was to take his leave, and he rose to make an exit.

“Though that pains me to hear, know that even if you do not have me under your roof once more, Lottie will be avenged. On my honor,” she replied.

The grief-stricken man said nothing, turned, and sauntered upward on the staircase away from them.

He could feel the flame of her ire when he shut the door behind him on their way out of the townhouse. Neb looked like she was at a loss. A blend of dissatisfaction, fear, and subtle resentment molded to her face in the wake of missing out on their first lead.

“Well, that did not go as expected,” she murmured, hiding her frown under her hand. She steeled herself, but Cullen knew her heart was as vulnerable as ever. “And I doubt anyone will prove of any help back at the market.”

Griffon greeted them with a vigorous wag of his tail nub. He leaned over to give him an affirming pat when a sense of dread slithered down his spine like cold water droplets. Cullen looked up, trying to find the source of the discomfort among the heavy noon foot traffic. He saw nothing.

Strange.

“We can always return to the clinic, consider a new approach,” he said, hopeful.

“Absolutely not. The trail grows colder by the hour. Let’s look for clues at the second largest center of commerce.”

“…A tavern?”

She nodded and insisted he followed her. He took full, brisk steps to match her pace while they wove their way through residential streets and merchant carts.

Then that cold feeling struck him upon passing an alleyway.

Anxiety compelled him to turn his head toward the shadows, and that’s when he saw it.

A figure, sinister and portentous, stood stiffly at attention. Their form was swallowed by an ink-black hooded cloak. They didn’t move, nor raise their head, but he could feel their gaze upon him.

“Cullen? What are you doing?” Neb called, luring his attention away.

When he turned back, the hooded figure had vanished.

“Nothing, it seems,” he said.

 

 

They left Griffon at the door. Villagers averted their eyes at the sight of the two newcomers entering the tavern. Cullen lamented a time when the two of them commanded attention in the shining regalia of the Inquisition and drew crowds in droves. Then he reprimanded himself. Though they'd grown softer and older in their anonymity, it provided more time for him to come up with a proper plan that would dissuade Neb from committing an act she'd surely come to regret.

"The barmaid may have more information," Neb said. "I'll go speak to her."

Three ruffians came in once Neb reached the counter. Cullen had seen his fair share of outlaws and felt confident in his ability to identify their level of skill. Two of them were burly, even at a relaxed stance. The tallest carried himself haughtier than the other two, with a pompous air of pseudo-intellectualism. He was slim and looked about a decade older. The leader, he thought. A man whose wallet was likely heavier than his build. His companions, all brawn and thinning hair, both carried hatchets, but it was the leader's sword that piqued his curiosity. The hilt had a flared design in the Orlesian fashion.

Neb returned with bowls of mutton stew, and the three men leered as she took her seat.

"She knew nothing. I fear that the more we investigate out-of-doors, the more quickly our culprit will learn of our tracking him. With so few leads, I know not where to look next.”

They’d barely finished their first bites before the trio approached their table. The leader, with eyes like murky pond water, stared them down.

"Well, well, if it ain’t the Herald of Andraste herself.”

“Gentlemen,” Neb greeted sardonically.

“Name’s Rariden,” he said. “Saw you come into town this mornin’. Word is you two been sniffin' 'round the market for information," he said, his voice raspy.

Neb gave Cullen a side-eyed stare.

"We was just wonderin' what you lot would find so interestin' in our 'humble village, see," said one of his cronies.

Before Cullen could answer, Neb spoke.

“The glass merchant’s daughter was murdered a few weeks ago. I seek the man who did it.”

The man gave a feral grin. “Sad business, that girl. Strange rumors about it.”

“Oh?”

“Gossip ‘round the well says that her body was set on the steps of the Chantry but that she weren’t butchered there. No blood for the nuns to scrub, you see.” His reddened eyes turned to Cullen. “What’s this old curmudgeon here for?”

“Protection,” she said.

“Him?” Rariden roared with laughter and gave Cullen a punch in the arm, a gesture he endured with a grimace of distaste. He cared not for casual contact, least of all from a common sellsword. “This pile of bones could barely fend off a wild chicken,” he scoffed. “What say you give a real man a try, eh? Wouldn’t mind a fleshy lass.”

“Tempting,” Neb smiled grimly. “Though you are mistaken. My husband is here to protect weak men like you from the likes of me.”

Something ugly flashed across the brigand's face, the expression so fleeting it was difficult for Cullen to decipher. Fury, fear or perhaps a combination of both. Rariden swung his arm to strike her, but in one swift motion, Neb caught his forearm in a vice grip. For a moment, she looked puzzled purely by the fact that she'd succeeded. Then her face softened, and she was reprehensibly amused, her laughter shattering the silence. Cullen sensed her magic conjuring and the air around them grew dismally cold.

"Oho! Did you forget that I'm a mage, as well? That I possess the ability to coax the elements?"

Her opponent's eyes bulged at the sound of ice crackling under her palm. When his cohorts took to their weapons, Cullen followed suit and gripped the hilt of his sword.

"If you come any closer, I will shatter him like glass," Neb threatened. Her eyes locked on Rariden's, who grimaced as her winter magic began to burn his flesh.

" _Bitch_ ," he winced. "Everyone knows you let that murderin' Rainier walk free. You're bluffing."

"Am I?" She tilted her head coquettishly.

Cullen studied his wife's face, stunned by her ferocity. There was no weariness in her, no abatement of intensity. His gut lurched. Rariden held Neb's gaze for an eternal moment. Then he gave a small, pained groan. His men reacted, then paused when Rariden held up his hand in a halting gesture.

"I think you overestimate my lady's ability to be reasonable on a subject on which she feels passionately," Cullen spoke firmly, masking fear. "Stand down."

The man to Rariden’s left sheathed his weapon.

“So, Rariden, was it?” Neb asked. “Who do you work for?”

"…Langdon Dupre.”

“'Dupre'? An Orlesian in South Reach?”

The man hissed. “Family came over before the annex. Old money, before his pappy bit the dust.”

“And why wouldn’t this Langdon Dupre want anyone asking about the glass merchant’s daughter?”

“I don’t— _fuck_ that hurts, you rotten cunt!”

“Watch it,” Cullen growled.

“As I was sayin’,” he continued, “I don’t ask questions, and my purse stays heavy.”

“Where can I find him?” Neb squeezed his arm harder, and Cullen heard the crunch of snow-frost beneath her grip. Rariden held his own, doing his best stone face given the circumstances.

“They've got a manor in the country, east of town.”

Neb casually relinquished his arm, and he snatched it away. She ignored his cries of pain as he fell back.

“There, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

“You'll pay. Go ahead, then. Dupre will have your head on a pike by nightfall.”

“Tell this Langdon Dupre that we will find him and conquer any challenge he gives us,” Neb raised her chin in defiance. “Be sure to stop by my clinic when you have a moment. Some elfroot salve would do wonders for that frostbite. And thank the Maker that you were able to walk away from this intact.”

Rariden scrambled back to his feet, and the three men left the tavern, cursing wildly. A din of concern and confusion erupted around them as patrons began spilling out of the building to catch a glimpse of the defeated.

“It seems we’ve found our next lead,” Neb said.

“Be careful,” he said. “You may boast to a band of ruffians all you like, but a wealthy man can afford an army.”

“We shall find out soon enough,” she responded blithely. Cullen didn’t like the sound of that. Though he was convinced her threats could keep her safe for a while, he had yet to learn anything of Langdon Dupre or his capabilities. If he had ruffians keeping the city quiet, it was unclear what other events might provoke him.

Upon exiting the tavern themselves, Cullen felt conflicted, like he had been split into two people. He was still his ordinary self, committed to protecting his wife from her own grief. And then he was his secret self, eager to follow-up on the case as much as she was. Though part of him wanted to prevent Neb from venturing further, he had to admit that the mystery grew more intriguing by the second.

“Where did Griffon go?” he asked, noticing that the dog had not remained at his assigned post by the door.

“You look for him. Meet me at the stable where I’ll prepare our horses. We head east.”

The day had already doddered past, full of irritations and worry, but the thought of losing Griffon nearly had him shaking. Riverden was as vast as it was seedy and opportunistic. He could be anywhere. His feet hit the stone pavement, and he broke into a run, his heart pounding, his breath trading heavily in and out of his lungs. A merchant’s cart passed him. Too small to carry such a massive beast, he reasoned. Strangers wandered by, quarreling or debating lowly under their voices, any one of them a possible culprit. The air felt thin, insubstantial, and ready to rip away at any second.

He felt the presence in his vicinity again.

He needn’t guess from where it emitted; veering toward the nearest alleyway. Sure enough, the blackened silhouette stared at him. But nothing prepared him for the sight of a seated Griffon at their side, panting comfortably. Cullen stood there a moment, unable to process the image before him.

“You again,” he said.

They raised an arm in a fluid, noiseless motion, the liquid fabric barely shifting from their hand. Cullen saw a rolled piece of parchment.

“Am I to take this?”

The figure did not respond.

Griffon whined, which Cullen interpreted as encouragement. If a being as cunning and intelligent as a mabari trusted them, he could show a little faith.

“Very well,” he said, reluctantly reaching forward with his palm extended. He tried to peer under the hood but saw only a dark abyss within.

The paper fell into his hand. It was small and yellowed and clearly torn from a more extensive page. He heard Griffon give a sharp bark but by the time his eyes rose to meet the stranger they had effervesced once more.

Tentatively, he unrolled the scrap and pinched the little page between his fingers. The penmanship was strikingly elegant, but the words left him even more perplexed. They were nonsense.

_I am flesh but made from stone._


	5. Chapter 5

He opted to withhold from telling Neb about his encounter with the stranger. Not until he was confident the being posed no real threat. Not until he decrypted the meaning of the note.

I am flesh but made from stone.

Cullen recalled dwarven tales of golems from the Deep Roads, those animated beings possessed by the souls of the living. There had even been a rumor that the colossal statue inhabiting his hometown of Honnleath was reported missing, leaving gaping prints in the mud as if it wandered off, seemingly of its own volition. Child’s folly, to be sure. Nevertheless, those beings represented flesh made into stone, not flesh made from stone. Whoever the hooded figure was, they did not appear to be any such creature. He couldn't imagine a rock moving with specter-like quickness.

The mystery still plagued him.

The afternoon earth retained the cold and moisture under their horses' hooves, which was surprising given that the road received plenty of light and exposure; the summer had been unseasonably wet, offering week upon week of damp spring weather. It seemed that the prolonged coolness embedded itself into each strand of grain that bent toward the horizon with a willow's grace. Cullen found it curious that something as mundane as a field would become an object of continuity when everything else had been subject to flux and chaos.

Neb rode next to him in silence and maintained her gaze forward. She held a tense posture astride her Friesian, Equinor, who appeared to match her. The horse paraded the country road with gentle snorts and forward-pricked ears. Cullen knew she was eager to charge ahead and were it not for Griffon’s elderly gait alongside them, she’d loosen Equinor’s reigns, giving him a full range of his head, and dig her heels into his sides until he reached a full sprint.

He sought a solution, any solution, but all his mind could visualize were the pieces that were broken.

“How will you do it?” he asked.

“Do what?”

“When you find Lottie’s killer and exact your revenge. How will you do it?”

“It is no concern of yours,” she bridled.

“As your accomplice, I would think that it is of my utmost concern,” he retorted. “So how?”

“We are not having this discussion, Cullen.”

“With the end of your staff? By magic-induced immolation? …With your Void-ridden herb shears?”

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” she spat.

“Would you truly feel better after gutting this man than when you did that Templar? Can you not see your own irrationality in this?”

She refused to look at him, though he watched her lips purse in contempt. “You once considered my ‘irrationality’ a precept of my character.”

“Yes. When I was angry and irrational. Thanks to you, I know better now.”

“And therein lies an important lesson.”

“Which is?”

“People can change,” she said firmly. Neb tightened Equinor’s reigns and urged him into a trot, leaving him and Griffon toddling behind.

Cullen detested profanity, for he found it vulgar and imprecise, but there was no solution for him in sight. He was fucked. He never claimed to be the best at anything, but he had mastered the ability to trust the values of common sense and judgment over weakness and error. Yet not even a master could convince his own tutor of the worth of her teachings.

He was absolutely, wholly, and utterly fucked.

They arrived at the gates of the Dupre estate after dusk. The signage appeared abandoned, left to a snarl of brambles and untamed shrubbery on a quilt of barren land that he presumed had once been a thriving flower garden. The night sky cast a harsh shadow over the manor, causing the lustrous gold flourishes to look dull and austere. Certainly not like something indicative of a typical Orlesian's folie de grandeur.

"No torches," he said, noting the darkness consuming every window. This far from civilization there was almost no sound at all—no gentle rustling in the grass, no calling of night birds, no interplay of human voices. A lush orchard lined the west side of the house, and the green leaves proved to be the only sign of life on the property. They had yet to be harvested and their bounty laid scattered among the tall grass, filling the air with the sour stench of overripe fruit. "The servants' homes are boarded up. It looks like Dupre hasn't kept staff for a while."

"Indeed, it's only missing a sign on the door reading 'condemned.' I'm surprised it isn't swarming with advantageous bank collectors right now," said Neb.

They halted their horses and Cullen gave his bay mare a few affirming pats before dismounting. Josie, as his wife so aptly named her, had a gentle disposition and boasted a luxurious mane, not unlike the Ambassador’s glossy black locks.

“Patrol the perimeter. Alert us of any activity on the outside,” he said to Griffon. The mabari chuffed and began his pursuit, sniffing vigorously at the ground.

They approached the entrance with caution, taking deliberate steps as though the floor could fall out from under them before they drew another breath. Cullen lined his back against the wall, and Neb stood at the door. Slowly, she reached her hand forward and gripped the handle which inched open from the slightest touch, making a low, eerie creak.

His brow scrunched in puzzlement, and he met her gaze. He needn’t warn her of the possibility of a trap awaiting them inside. Instead, he gave her a firm nod that she reciprocated before pulling the door open the rest of the way. Cullen gripped the hilt of his blade and Neb ejected her staff from the holster on her back. Opening her palm wide she whispered a familiar incantation, the one to summon barrier webbing, and he felt bathed in the familiar glow and protection her magic provided. Bathing always felt like the appropriate metaphor, for Cullen could compare the sensation to wading into a vat of warm water, feeling it wash over his skin and reinvigorate every muscle and sinew.

Years earlier, the sight of a mage drawing their weapon and casting a spell would have sent him into a frenzy as old fears threatened to claim him. He and Neb had had their share of differences, but a profound mutual trust resided at their union's core. He recalled the many nights Neb dedicated to educating him, exposing him to the techniques involving spirit healing, showing insurmountable patience while she helped him overcome his past with the understanding that magic could be a force for good, tempering his anxieties bit-by-bit. Over time, he trusted her enough to allow her to treat his migraines with a gentle purification spell, which replaced the dull ache with a shroud of serenity.

Cautiously, Neb stepped inside, and Cullen followed suit. He turned to take another look at the entryway should anything strike at them from behind.

The sprawling chateau was nearly as vast, empty, and dark as the night sky. If it weren’t for the torrent of dust clouding his face and the cold marble flooring echoing off his boots, it would be possible to imagine that he and Neb floated in the indistinguishable ether of space. They did not speak at all as they navigated the foyer, instead, began taking stock of anything that resembled a torch or a lantern.

“Here we go,” Neb uttered. He tensed at the scrape of metal, but then he sensed the familiar prickle of magic in the air as Neb conjured an immolation spell. The torch filled the room with amber light.

“Cullen, come over here!”

He turned, and a portrait hung on the wall in front of her, just beyond the antechamber. Peering closer, he read the plaque: Langdon Dupre.

“This is the man we’re looking for, then?” While Cullen knew little of art, he noted the artist’s use of harsh strokes defining his face, almost as if they concentrated their aggression towards their subject in every flick of their brush. Dupre was clearly big. He looked like a fierce man with hard, robust features, a shaved head, and broad shoulders. His mouth was a thin, firm line schooled to neutrality, and his eyes—if they boasted any color of the sort, Cullen could not see it behind their unsettling blackness.

He sensed it first— a disturbance in the atmosphere, a presence he'd hoped to never feel again. It was a sensation that any Templar could recognize even long after lyrium caused his brain to rot. A pull from the Fade, indicating an impending horror. Even before the events at the Conclave, Cullen could identify the shift. That knowledge kept him alive while Uldred’s demons tormented him. He could follow it like an electrified thread that led down the nearest corridor. Then the sound ensued. A labored tapping followed by something dragging. It was ragged and uneven, and every now and then seemed to stop for a pace or two.

“Do you hear that?” he asked.

Neb paused, narrowing her feline eyes and homing in on the anomaly. “Yes.”

“We are not alone.”

“I know.”

He unsheathed his blade and held it aloft. Neither dared venture further down the passage blindly. Instead, they waited and listened as the noise grew louder, the blood beating in Cullen’s ears with anticipation. Tap, drag, pause, tap, tap, drag…

It drew closer. Cullen could make out the faintest movement in the lantern light as the entity came into view. What he saw disturbed him: flailing limbs unable to find a center of gravity. Contrasted against the obsidian vacuum around it, the activity caused the fine hairs on his skin to rise.

Finally, it—she—emerged.

“Maker…”

A woman, flaxen-haired, young, clearly deceased, and most certainly possessed. The undead body was not terribly old, freshly putrescent. She looked more like a bloated, damaged, waxen effigy of a woman. She hobbled on bare feet as whatever shade or demon propelled her remains forward. Her tattered skirt sagged to one side, causing her heel to slip whenever it caught the fabric along the floor. Cullen had seen his fair share of walking corpses, but always of those that had severely decayed. Neb herself journaled her encounters in the Emerald Graves with skeletal figures taking up arms in areas where the Veil was thin. Her eyes gazed eternally upward, leaving Cullen and Neb to stare at their cloudy sclera.

Gripping his hilt tighter he assumed a base attack stance, keeping his left arm tucked over his abdomen for added protection. Neb flanked his right side, and her mechanical arm whirred with an influx of mana.

The undead raised her arms and bared her teeth to reveal blackened gums. The closer she got, the more putrid the stink of rot became. She hissed, and as if she’d conserved all her strength for this moment, surged forward.

A chill penetrated his boots and Cullen dove into a roll just in time before Winter’s Grasp took hold of the creature’s feet. The woman lashed out, clawing wildly. Neb’s spell lasted a blink before the woman reared over in his direction and lunged a second time. He heard Neb call out his name when Cullen blocked her with his blade. Her head strained closer, and her mouth chomped with a wolven hunger.

She was stronger than any undead he’d faced. Lifting his knee, he struck her ribs, but she did not abate. She only pushed with greater force. The sword sliced into her palms and a sickening black fog emanated from the wounds.

Another cold blast struck at the horror’s back, and Cullen’s face was scattered with snow. The woman yielded and turned to face Neb, who aimed the glowing crystal at the end of her staff. The creature hobbled toward her, but Neb continued her assault. Strike after strike, it persisted with gangly, outstretched arms.

With its back to him, Cullen raced, holding his sword forward, and rammed it clean through her abdomen. The woman’s arms dropped. An exasperated gurgle escaped her throat before she fell to the floor like a marionette who’d just had its strings cut. They waited for a time, but she no longer moved.

“Maker,” his voice out of breath. “I had expected attack dogs. A rigged explosive. Not this.”

“No,” Neb said, retrieving the torch from the floor. She knelt beside the body and turned it over, so it laid on its back. “Who was she?”

Cullen studied her face, her clothes. “Common wool clothing. Pockmarks along her jaw. A servant girl, I’d wager, once upon a time.”

“Cullen, look, there’s something around her neck.”

True enough, an item rested beneath her bodice on a thin leather rope. Cullen tugged it, studying the woman’s face in case there was a chance she’d spring to life again—in a manner of speaking. With a final pull, he relinquished the object and tore the leather strap away.

“It’s some kind of talisman,” he said. Opaque, likely some form of ceramic. He ran his thumb along the edge and felt a pattern. “There’s a small inscription on it.”

Neb held the torch aloft for better lighting while he rotated the object in his palms. The oval piece featured a symbol—a circle with multiple sections, each boasting its own unique rune.

They looked at each other. Both knew what it meant. Anyone who ever set foot inside a Harrowing Chamber did.

“It’s a summoning circle,” Neb said in bemusement.

“Can you make out the symbols, what demon they represent?”

“No,” she shook her head. “I didn’t know this kind of magic was possible in object form.”

“And with an unknown demon, it is even more disconcerting,” he shook his head, still not quite believing. A brief image flashed in his mind, one of his brethren lying broken and bloodied at his feet. The summoning circle he rested on for days under an impenetrable dome. He took a breath and envisioned himself locking the thought safely away. A practice that Neb had introduced him to in their early years. He was back in the present. It was dark. A dead woman sprawled at his feet. A mission to fulfill. “Was Dupre an apostate?”

“Of that, I am not yet certain. Let’s investigate further.”

“Fine. Where shall we start?”

She turned. A narrow staircase resided next to Dupre’s portrait. “If you want to learn about a person, it is said that the best way is through their bedchamber. Follow me.”

Keeping close to her heels, Cullen shadowed Neb upstairs and down a dim and dismal corridor. The floor was lined in chaos: overturned plants, fallen suits of armor, a crumbled statue, a toppled candelabra.

One particular door stood out among the others. Its frame was left uncluttered, for instance. Presuming it to be the room in which Dupre slept, Neb turned the handle and ventured inside.

The smell of old pages filled his nostrils. Neb lit the lantern on the wall for added illumination, and the two of them began surveying the room. All-in-all, it looked like an average Orlesian’s living quarters, complete with embroidered satin bedsheets, a marble fireplace, and a festooned headboard. A cherry wood desk rested to one side while shelves lined with countless tomes occupied every wall. More books littered the floor, some stacked precariously in teetering towers. Everywhere he turned housed another manuscript, scroll, or leather-bound publication.

“It would appear our lead is quite the avid reader,” he said, flipping the pages of one of the books on the desk. It was in Orlesian and appeared to be a kind of herbalism guide. He wondered if he should pocket it for use in the clinic. Perhaps Neb could use her connections to have it translated.

“Look at some of these titles. A Brief History of Spirit Warriors. Fade Anomalies in Thedas. Here’s one about the Inquisition,” she read.

He met her where she stood and read a few pages over her shoulder. She’d opened to a chapter summarizing the events that led to the Conclave’s destruction. The author had done some investigating about the ancient elven magic that triggered it. Looking to the top of another pile, a wine colored cover caught his eye. The title caused his skin to prickle.

“A Survey on the Identification and Apprehension of Arcane Deviants. This is a Knight-Commander’s volume. It would not be available to anyone outside of the Order.”

“These books are all Circle contraband. Most of them may have been acquired illegally during the Rebellion.”

“And given the entity lying downstairs, the likelihood of Dupre being a humble Circle history pedant or archivist is slim to none.”

She nodded in agreement. Her eyes scanned the room aimlessly until they landed decidedly on the four-post bed. “Cullen, when we lived at Skyhold, where did you store all the letters I wrote to you during my travels? The ones for your eyes only?”

“Under my mattress, like any self-respecting man.”

“Exactly,” she said. “Where anyone would hide their most cherished secrets.”

They approached the bed, which resided between two gold-trimmed windows. The glass left him exposed; Cullen couldn’t shake the sensation that he was being watched. It was an uncomfortable, threatening sensation, a serpent’s tongue in his ear.

“Ready?” Neb asked, holding one end of the mattress.

“Yes.” He gripped the other.

They lifted the plush, heavy goose down from the bed and planted it in a heap to the side.

“Do you see anything?”

“I’m looking,” he said. No pages, no incriminating journals were to be had. He’d almost given up when a tiny shape stood out among the darkness. He picked it up. It was cool, soft metal, no larger than a coin. He held it aloft to get a better look.

“What is it?”

“It’s a lockbox key.”

“Only a key? No box itself?”

He met her eyes, which had grown wide and nerve-riddled. The knowledge that they were genuinely unraveling Dupre’s clues overwhelmed his desire to escort her back to their sleepy little cottage so much that only a greater corresponding curiosity kept his resolution intact.

“I am afraid not, but it would be asinine to abscond with one and not the other, no? I’m sure it’s still here somewhere.”

The next clue had to be hidden somewhere in the opulence of the room. Cullen had no idea how to effectively look for it. He began tearing through empty drawers, a sparse armoire, and then back to the pile of books littering the desk. Neb followed suit, pulling hard copies from the bookshelves and eagerly paging through each one.

“Anything?” he asked.

“No,” she said, sounding despondent. "Nothing else here but almanacs, ledgers on recent harvests, notes on crossbreeding different varieties of stone fruit.”

A shudder slithered up his spine. “Say that again?”

Neb looked puzzled. “Stone fruit? Peaches, plums, and the like? Cullen, is something the matter?”

She squeaked in surprise when he hurled himself toward the window with broad, rushed steps, unable to slow himself in the wake of an epiphany. There, rustling in the evening breeze and in perfect view from his bedchamber. The orchard.

Peaches. Plums. Apricots. Cherries. The flesh of the fruit. A stone pit from which it grew.

_I am flesh but made from stone._

“Neb, I know where the lockbox is hidden.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another Interlude: 2 Fluff 2 Furious

_Skyhold, 9:42 Dragon_

Nothing was working. Cullen resigned himself to a lifetime of preoccupation. He accepted sordid dinner invitations at the behest of Ambassador Montilyet. He was willing to draft messages on routine patrol schedules that were better served by the head guardsman. He led a homily during Chantry service. He offered to perform meteorological analyses to anticipate drastic changes in weather around the keep. _Anything_ to remain busy. _Anything_ to distract his mind and redirect his energy from the pull of lyrium. And nothing was working. He still experienced megrims and migraines, and terrors that haunted him in the middle of the night.

Yet when the time came to announce his resignation, the Seeker refused him. He detested Cassandra for ignoring his most outright injunction to step down in spite of their pact. In front of the Inquisitor, of all people. He felt humiliated that she had to witness him, pale, pinched, and fatigued, flattening his hands against his cheeks in stark despair.

In the solitude of his office, Cullen swirled the vial of lyrium in his hands, watching the ethereal blue liquid vortex down. _It would be so easy_. He recalled downing his first draught during his Templar initiation. The way that static taste electrified his tongue. The way his senses heightened so greatly he could hear the beat of a fly's wings the next room over. The overwhelming, unbridled energy surging through his body, allowing him to operate for days without rest.

He could feel that way again. He _needed_ to feel that way again. If not for the added strength and endurance then for the pure, holistic thrill. Cullen felt his pulse coursing to an unsteady rhythm. A sheen of sweat sprung upon his palms and between his shoulder blades. His heart was beating too fast, his armor felt too tight.

Before he knew it, his body began moving without his consent and brought the raw, unfiltered substance closer to his mouth. There were risks affiliated with consuming lyrium in its unprocessed form, but he couldn't summon a modicum of concern for his well-being. He wanted certainty. He wanted control.

He paused.

Memories flashed in his mind: the half-formed bodies of his brethren attacking Haven; Knight-Commander Meredith's agonizing screams as her crystallizing body formed a scarlet horror; a magical barrier and a demon wearing another woman’s face; its hands inching up his inner thighs and the knowledge that no one would come for him.

 _“Sweet boy,”_ its voice a tangible, velvet caress. _“Is there naught I can offer to ease your suffering?”_

Cullen abruptly opened his eyes as his sense of self-awareness returned to him. With a heavy growl, he tossed the bottle with great force, sending shards of glass shattering against the stone walls.

And directly next to a figure who’d just entered the room.

"Maker's breath! I thought I was alone," he gasped. Cullen had become slightly disoriented in his fugue, his world was still an ill-defined blur. When his vision cleared, he saw that it was Neb standing in the doorway, having followed him from his confrontation with Cassandra in the smithy.

Neb could have been hurt.

“I’m all right,” she reassured, level and calm. “Luckily, you missed.”

At once, an amalgam of guilt, surprise, and an encroaching sense of shame washed over him. Perhaps now she’d understand why he’d been so adamant that Cassandra relieve him of command; how greatly the thirst affected him.

“Forgive me,” he said.

Neb looked to the floor. Lyrium pooled around her feet among glints of glass shards. “You don't need to apologize. From the look of things, you nearly gave in.”

He gripped a hand at the nape of his neck to ease the building tension there. Try as he might, he could not replicate the Inquisitor’s deft technique to soothe the stabbing pain incurred from withdrawal. “Had I not reclaimed my clarity. Even a moment longer, and I may well have.”

“Well then,” she said. “Better on my boots than your lips.”

Maker, how could she look so calm? Her skin plump and well hydrated, her thick hair lovingly styled, her eyes sparkling. In direct contrast to the wraith he’d become, underfed, weary, and withering. It felt like all the sinew and muscle in his body waged war inside of him and was quickly gaining ground. His composure hung by a slender, frayed thread.

“My resolve is waning, Neb.”

“Then, I arrived just in time.”

She had to recognize the position he was in, but how could she if she did not hear the full story? Perhaps if he conveyed his truths to her, she too would approve of his decision. She would understand that this futility tore away precious time allotted to the fight against Corypheus.

So he told her. He told her about his ideals, and how they’d been shattered during the Kinloch uprising. He was young then, full of wonder and amazement. He kept his armor well-oiled and polished, so it shone good as new. The blade at his side had been purely ornamental. He’d never needed a reason to draw it outside of practice drills. He held the fever-bright eyes of a young Templar newly inducted to lyrium. The song coursed loudly through his veins. Cullen assured his commanding officers that he’d embody everything a Templar represented. He recited the Chant as if he’d written it personally, endeared himself to his charges and was well-liked on both sides. Most important of all, he was vigilant. He was exemplary.

Which is why Uldred saved him for last.

 _“Leave that one,”_ Uldred ordered as he climbed the stairs to the Chamber. Cullen watched him, helpless in an arcane cage. He’d already screamed himself hoarse while his friends' corpses sprawled in pools of their own gore mere inches from him. _“We’ll make an example of him yet. Feel free to play with him in the meantime.”_

He told her of Kirkwall, and how every move he made was punctuated by seething hatred. Uldred left an indelible mark on him, one he could not extricate. Those seven years were hazy. Cullen gorged himself on Meredith’s words like sacred ambrosia. His lyrium-addled mind committed himself to a new cause. A lie, and one that crumbled to ash on the day the Chantry burned.

The song could be relied on to muffle his memories. The lyrium helped him persevere. Without it, he could not adhere to the Inquisition’s critical schedule. Without it, he was not at peak strength.

“I should be taking it.”

“Cullen, listen. This is not who you are,” Neb pleaded.

“You don’t understand. You _can’t_ understand,” he said, bracing his hand over his mouth. “I do not sleep. I do not eat.” He roped both of his hands in his hair, pulling the strands so taut it burned and paced the length of his desk. He was raving, and he knew it. He could only imagine how pathetic he looked. A streak of sunlight refracted on the pieces of the broken vial. He watched the liquid slither through the cracks in the stone, and the last of his strength draining with it. “There is nothing left of me. I have nothing. I _am_ nothing. Day and night, it calls to me—that incessant _singing_.”

“Do you hear it now?”

He clenched his eyes shut and nodded in affirmation.

Cullen heard her feet shuffle closer to him. Gingerly, she plucked one of his hands from his scalp and took it in hers. They were so small compared to his, softer and more delicate. The pads of her harpist's fingers were lightly calloused. Eyes open, he watched them dance over his palm before cupping the entire extremity like a baby bird. He'd never made a note of how dexterous they were until now. For one so touch-averse, he liked the way they felt.

Abashed that she had to find him in this state, he turned his face away.

"Cullen, look at me."

He did so with reluctance and saw that Neb kept her luminous eyes steadfastly fixed on him. There was something in her gaze, a magnetism that so fascinated him his breathing inevitably slowed. It was in the upward tilt of concern at the corners of her brows, the gentle parting of her mouth. So often, he'd been looked upon as a tool instead of a person, but he knew for sure that Neb didn't see him that way. It made all the times he felt isolated a distant memory.

And then she began to sing.

There were no lyrics to follow. Instead, she let the music shine. It was a simple melody, though not one he recognized. Not a Chantry hymn, but it almost had the straightforwardness of a children’s lullaby. Her voice was clear and exultant, embellishing each note with a tender vibrato, virtually like she composed her own measures right where she stood. She truly put her heart into it, like she did with everything else.  At the song’s finale, she reached the top of her vocal range, her lovely soprano cascaded downward in a thrilling succession of arpeggios. Her voice was cooling liquid, soothing him from the outside in. When she finished, his stance wavered as if her singing had been his anchor. Neb’s hands held him tighter to steady him.

“Maker, that was…what song was that?”

“It’s your song,” she said.

“I’m sorry?”

“I wrote it for you.” She tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear. “Inspired by you, I mean. It’s something I do to occupy myself while on the road. I write songs for everyone,” she amended.

“It’s marvelous.”

“I’m glad you like it,” she said. Her cheeks flushed to that shade of petal pink again. “How do you feel?”

He took a deep, cleansing breath and exhaled slowly. He gave her a pained smile. “A little calmer. Thank you.”

“Cullen,” she said sincerely, “I can’t know exactly what you are going through. All I can do is remind you that this is _your_ choice. You said it yourself: you wanted to leave the gilded cage. So forget the Inquisition. Forget schedules, and order, and war. If all of that disappeared tomorrow, is retaking lyrium _still_ what you’d want?”

His breath labored as he contemplated the decision. Memories washed over him. Kinloch. Kirkwall. Corypheus’ Red Templars, those poor fools. He would not be like them. He would not be Meredith’s protégé. He would not be Uldred’s victim.

“No,” he spoke firmly, with authority. “No, I would not. But I do not think I can bear the madness any longer.”

She moved closer to him and rested her hand against the cold steel of his breastplate. The tension eased out of his body when their eyes met. Hers was so warm, like fresh honey dripping off the comb, or the wheat fields outside of Honnleath at sunset, where he’d often scout for natural wonders as a boy. They were so comforting to look at.

“I _know_ you can,” she said.

He sighed and nodded his head. His resolve kept Uldred’s demons from claiming his mind. If he could withstand that torture of his own will, he could endure this, as well. “You’re right. I will.”

“That’s what I hoped you’d say.”

He continued to hold her gaze, taking their conversation from heartening to awkward. It seemed they had each run out of material. Another long pause and she removed her hand from his chest.

Neb cleared her throat and Cullen’s eyes fell to her mouth, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. “I’ll give you some time alone. And thank you. For sharing with me. I will not take it for granted.”

He watched her leave, somewhat ruefully. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as he took in her every movement. With every step, he felt colder in her absence.

That night, Cullen hunched himself over the chamber pot, feeling his diaphragm spasm as it tried to heave the contents of a long-empty stomach. Another grueling side effect of withdrawal. When his coughing finally ceased, he wobbled towards his bed on shaky knees. He sank down, his throat burning, his eyes watering.

As the thirst rattled through him, he began to cry. He could handle the crying. In the privacy of his quarters, he would never be ashamed of shedding a tear. Crying reminded him of his humanity in the presence of Uldred’s demons. If his body needed to expel something, Maker, he’d rather it be tears.

His sobs rarely lasted long, only a moment of stress relief in the ritual he’d experienced since coming to Skyhold. By the end, he was bone tired, physically and emotionally exhausted. Cullen closed his eyes, and his body tightened in a brief moment of transport as he recollected the day’s events.

Everything. He had told Neb everything. Events that troubled him for over a decade. He’d never shared what transpired at Kinloch with anyone, but for all she’d endured in opening up to him, it seemed only appropriate that he responded in kind.

He thought of the levity in her voice, and the sweet and wistful song she’d crafted for him. And Maker, the haunting melody had such a profound effect on his morale. The woman boasted many gifts, that was certain.

He started humming it, idly at first, but then took a deep breath and his strained, unused vocals expressed a few bars. It felt incredible to sing it himself, like the combination of notes were threaded into every fiber of his being. The overwhelming joy of it sucked up even the sound of his voice rising from his chest in a discernible arc upward and straight to the Maker’s ears.

Afterword, Cullen proceeded with his breathing exercise, inhaling deeply through his nostrils and exhaling ever-so-slowly until his body dissolved into the mattress. He’d have to find some way to thank her for her gift. For the reassurance. Because of Neb, he was filled with a sensation he thought he’d long forgotten.

He was filled with hope.


	7. Chapter 7

 

Cullen’s head practically swiveled in his frenzy. He had not even paused to explain himself as he rushed out of the bedroom, the door making an unwelcoming echo in the grand hall. He’d not even bothered to grab a torch. The sound of his riding boots resonated off the vaulted ceiling, ribbed with ornate archways. Neb’s bewildered calls accompanied him as he navigated the shadows. Down the steps, past Langdon’s chilling portrait, right into the foyer where the body of an unfortunate serving girl laid, and out into the cool evening air once more. It _had_ to be buried there.

“Cullen, where—”

“To the orchard. Follow me.”

“How do you know this?” she asked, exasperated and panting to keep up with him.

He didn’t respond, instead, keeping an eye out for Griffon. Placing two fingers in his mouth, he whistled at as loud of a volume he could muster until the dog’s grey silhouette bounded into view. The three of them raced through the tall grass, careful not to slip on the mushy remains of fallen fruit, ducking their heads to avoid low hanging branches. Cullen led them through the phalanx of peach trees, each spaced carefully like pieces on a chess board. Eagerly, he scanned the ground around their roots and lissome trunks for any sign of a disturbance.

Damn it all to the Void, there were too many of them! Too many hiding places for a mere hunch. He halted his pursuit, pressing his hands to his thighs while he worked on regulating his breathing. He still had the brash hastiness of his youth, but not the stamina for such a task. Neb’s footsteps slowed behind him. Griffon paced in front of him, rejuvenated by the prospect of a hunt.

Of _course_. Cullen looked down at the dog’s white, lived-in face. The mabari, a tactical war dog and tracker. A beast with keener eyesight in the dark, and more powerful olfactory senses.

“Hey, you,” he said softly, holding the lockbox key over the dog’s nose. It was a gamble, but so was a blind search on his own. “Think you could find its companion out here?”

Griffon inspected the metal fragment with a thorough sniff. Then his ears pricked, and his neck reared westward. Whatever he sensed, what rich scents tickled his nostrils, Cullen could not know. The property was unwholesomely quiet. Occasional shapes darted across the sky on silent wings—bats, owls, some small nocturnal creatures in search of vermin in the brush. The air carried only the faint rustle of greenery, but no other sounds danced around his ears. He gave an alarmed bark and charged forward, compassed by the scent of metal and Maker-knows-what-else.

Cullen and Neb followed the mabari’s lead as he darted through the orchard with surprising grace for his old age. It had a mesmerizing effect, watching him vault over fallen tree limbs with four-footed fleetness. Cullen forgot the ache in his legs as he sprinted.

 _Maker be praised_. Sure enough, Griffon lured them to an area of interest. The site seemed to lie in supplication to the sky: bare and exposed, topsoil overturned. In direct contrast to the heavily grassed earth around it. The tree bark bore no markings, and any traction that would have led to the spot had been lost to weather and overgrowth. Yet when he approached the base of the peach tree, he immediately began to paw at the dirt.

“Cullen, how did you know it was out here?” Neb asked again.

He hesitated, considering how much of the truth to tell her. Not because he thought her incapable of understanding—Maker knows she’d experienced more than her fair share of uncanny encounters—but because he barely understood the implications of it himself. He continued watching Griffon dig into the loose earth. Instead, Cullen opted to feign ignorance. “A feeling, nothing more.”

Her face wore a look of heavy skepticism, but she did not make the comments that were clearly circling in her mind. The thrill of finding their next lead took precedence.

They both turned their heads at the sound of claws scraping against metal. Kneeling, Cullen reached into the hole to collect what Griffon had unearthed. The dog showed no interest in investigating the object himself. He had opted to run in a full circle, barking madly. The lockbox was bronzed. The corners oxidized from excess moisture. It boasted no discernable details save for the groove where the key presumably fit. The next clue was in his hands. He turned to Neb, her expression indeterminate in the moonlight.

“Would you like to do the honors?” he asked.

She collected the prize like a priceless heirloom and pinched the key between two fingers. Gingerly, she inserted it into the lock and turned. When it clicked open, they met each other’s gaze, her eyes more full than the two pale moons. Cautiously, Neb lifted the lid and reached inside. All the while Griffon continued to run frantic laps around them.

“It’s—"

“What is it?” he asked, hearing the susurrus of parchment.

“Pages? A book? The lighting is too poor. I cannot read them.”

Cullen wiped a muddy hand across his brow. His shoulders grew weary from a night of radically shifting emotions and thoughts. It was impossible to process everything with Griffon’s incessant yipping.

“At ease!” he ordered, but the dog would not relent. “What has gotten into you?”

It tickled his feet, at first. A tiny vibration no stronger than a pebble rattling around in a jar, but it exponentially strengthened, and the ground beneath the orchard shook.

“Be on your guard,” said Neb while she pocketed the box and summoned a barrier.

Cullen held a tight grip on the hilt of his sword. Countless serpentine entities cut their way through the soil like climbing florals or earthworms wriggling in the dirt after an unrelenting rainstorm. But Cullen knew that no squall had summoned these creatures.

They were fingers. Dozens of them extended out of the soil. Soon, full arms burst forth, and the orchard was alight with macabre movement.

"I think I know what happened to Dupre's staff," Cullen said as he felt his heart shrivel to the size of a rune. He’d been so wound with adrenaline that he didn’t consider that he might be unwittingly leading them into a trap. Now they were surrounded.

More limbs emerged as droves of possessed bodies clamored to the surface, their graves gaping open like cystic wounds. The first to achieve freedom rose on wobbly legs—only to be tackled by Griffon who tore through the horde at breakneck speed. The two tumbled once, twice, until the dog sunk his jaws into the creature’s neck with a gruesome crunch.

One charged, an older man’s body, and Cullen ran him through the heart with his sword. It proved useful on the undead in the chateau, and he was relieved to find that it resulted in the same outcome. A second flanked him with wildly swinging arms. Cullen took a step back, aimed, and that one, too, was cut down. Pressing on, he caught the sway of something around the creatures’ respective necks in the soft light and need not guess that each body wore the same talisman set with a summoning circle.

There wasn't much cover among the slender trees. The many ornamental alcoves and buttresses framing the house, those would be best. If they made it past the tree line, Neb could flank the undead contingent and disorient them while he and Griffon remained in the fray to finish them off. A sunken door resided beneath an egress. He hypothesized it led to the kitchens or wine cellar—regardless, they’d stand a better chance if they could make it inside.

“Neb, the house! Let us fall back!”

She nodded curtly. “Keep close.”

It had been ages since he'd seen Neb in real combat. She was faster than he remembered; less timid and more determined as she charged the undead horde and their stiff fingers clawed at her leathers. She outstretched her hand, relinquishing swift pulses of frost magic and hammering them back. She was nearly fast enough to leave him in the dust if he didn't maintain a steady pace for fear of getting caught in the shockwaves of her spells.

They passed the threshold where the grove and house delineated, but the undead army caught up with them by the time they made it to the doorway.

“There are still too many. They’ll bash the house in if we don’t pick more of them off,” he surmised.

She nodded. “I have an idea.”

“I’ll follow your lead.”

"Stay behind me," Neb ordered. “Both of you.” The mana surrounding her was so thick he could almost reach out and touch it. Electricity blossomed around her body, and he knew what she planned to do.

Griffon lagged behind, having tripped an undead walker by clenching their ankle between his teeth. He dragged the body behind him, and it thrashed about, sending others toppling to the ground along the way. If he didn’t reach Cullen’s side in time, the ramifications were dire. Cullen whistled once more, and the dog craned his neck to his direction.

“Over here! Hurry!” he urged him. The mabari surrendered the leg and took off into a full sprint just as Neb’s body began to glow a bright shade of violet. He’d heard of her using this ability only once before, and it resulted in the destruction of a rogue Avvar militia in the Fallow Mire. She’d obtained the skill under the tutelage of her former lover, an elven man named Issan. The power to coax lightning from the sky. Griffon hurtled and surged his body forward into a grand leap, landing behind Neb just as the first bolt began to fly.

Though they were safely out of range, the breadth of the spell washed over him. Cullen felt as if he had been dropped in lava. His skin was melting, his insides were on fire. The heat was overwhelming. He could see the intense strain in Neb’s posture, the tension pulling her body taut as she expelled blinding light from her fingertips. He closed his eyes, taking a hard breath against searing discomfort, and then silence filled the air once more.

Bodies littered the property, limbs outstretched helter-skelter, and steam clouded the orchard in a morbid fog. She’d pulled so much magic from the Fade that he wouldn’t be surprised to discover that she’d torn open a rift in the process of casting. Suddenly, Neb was kneeling on the ground, every bone and muscle in her body appeared to be stretched with pain. Storm magic sapped her of her energy. He remembered that the last time she’d needed days to recover.

“Are you all right?” he asked, wrapping an arm around her waist to hoist her into a standing position.

“Mm,” she blinked lazily. “Inside.”

Gripping her tightly, he led her to the door. When it opened, he guided her gently, easing her over the threshold to prevent her from stumbling. Griffon’s nose hit the stone instantly, inspecting the area.

Using her mechanical arm, she pushed her body away from his and reoriented herself.  

“I’ll be fine,” she insisted when he lightly cupped her right hand to balance her.

“Are you certain? That was an incredible display. After last time…”

She made a sound that was equal parts laughter and gentle despair. Again, she tried to break his hold. “I was not as experienced back then.”

He sighed and freed her. “If you insist.”

“Where are we?” she asked, her voice still unsteady.

“Too small for the kitchens. A cellar, I suppose?”

He tried to identify the space when there was a shuffle. A golden flare as Neb lit a torch on the wall. Square stones formed a circular pattern in the little alcove. They stood at the precipice of a staircase leading lower into the cold earth. The sight of the narrow passage left him ill at ease.

“I must admit, I feel a sense of trepidation,” he said.

“As do I. Yet there’s a force pulling me nearer. The Fade is strong here.”

“Shall we, then?”

Neb nodded, handing over the torch. She turned to Griffon, kneeling to his level for a moment. The dog lapped at her cheeks.

“Stay on guard here in case any of those corpses feel like moving again. We will return soon, all right?”

“ _Bark_!”

“Good boy.”

Cullen negotiated the winding stairwell without a sound, tiptoeing down each step for fear that anyone could be rigged. A generic explosive seemed almost _pass_ _é_ given Dupre’s apparent proclivities, but he still would not rule out the possibility. The walls were cool and damp. The air smelled of pungent iron and minerals.

“When I served in Kirkwall, we investigated a rather gruesome attack on the nobility,” he started. “The offender was a maleficar named Quentin. Unfortunately, Serah Hawke’s mother was among his victims.”

“Any reason you'd opt to bring this up now?” she asked. Neb took each step as precariously as he, though more for the sake of maintaining equilibrium while she recovered her strength.

He reached the end unmolested and lit the torch resting at the foot of the stairwell. Another rounded chamber. Given the temperature shift, it may have served as food storage once upon a time, but Dupre had other ideas. More etchings. More runes carved into the stone. Haphazard scribbles in white chalk. A summoning circle covering most of the floor. A pile of clay talismans like the ones his reanimated army wore. The area was rife with his arcane obsession.

“Because this place reminds me of his lair.”

Her face contorted in stark disgust, and she cupped her hand over her nose. “ _Maker_. That smell…”

Cullen nodded. “Death. The room reeks of it.”

“The box!” Neb remembered, pulling it from the pack at her side. She set the lockbox on the table and opened it. She reached in and pulled out loose pages—diagrams, featuring the same summoning symbols that plastered the estate, talisman designs, and a leather-bound book.

Cullen reached for it, holding it up in the light so they could both read. At first, they only saw dates and mundane passages.

“Langdon Dupre’s diary,” Neb said.

As Cullen kept turning the pages, he noted the change in calligraphy. Initially, Dupre’s penmanship was quite elegant and teeming with fluid Orlesian loops and filigree. Then, with each passing day, the handwriting grew more savage and blocky until it was a series of unnerving, jagged points.

_“O’Keefe smiled at me during the auction. The nerve of that son of a backwater Fereldan bitch. There he stood, selling off everything my father had to his name, priceless heirlooms, our art collection, furniture, my mother’s pearls, my grandmother’s Void-ridden spectacles! Not that he cared. He’d sell my soul if he could. But when it came time to bid on the deed to our estate, he looked straight at me, and his lips curled wide and high…”_

_“I had a dream last night. A man took my hand and spoke to me. His words were honey, they felt like formed silk. He said he knew me…”_

_“They can take everything down to the very last candlestick, but I will never surrender our family’s land. We are not Dupre without it. We honed the earth from nothing more than a bog to the thriving jewel of South Reach. The man came to me in my dreams again. We devised a plan…”_

“So, the Dupre family fell on hard times,” Cullen said.

“It would seem so. They lost their fortune.”

“And this talk of dreams…”

“What else does it say?”

_“I look forward to slumber, now. When I meet with A., he has all the answers. I have never experienced such wisdom! He tells me that the estate holds great power. He could show me how to wield it, and with it, we could take back my family’s title. Our business. Our home. But A. has been trapped…”_

“Who is A.?”

Cullen met Neb’s narrowed eyes. “This reads like the lure of a demon, Neb.”

“I don’t disagree. A lot of power resides below this house. It could attract any number of spirits.”

_“I have carried out his instructions to the letter. A. can break the chains that bind him. The summoning circle is in place. All we need is a mage. They are scant in these parts, all having migrated north, but A. and his great mind have guided me to find ways to seek one out…”_

_“The servants struggled, unwilling to perform one final task for their master. It took time, molding them one-by-one. A few drops of deathroot extract in the well made the work easier. Many feared an influx of wolves and dracolisks in the area with so many going missing. A. will make them stronger…”_

So the demon took advantage of his desperation to reclaim his fortune and Dupre was eager enough for a solution to fall for its scheme. With his help, it had amassed a small band of undead warriors and coached him in the ways of arcane detection. Without magic, the demon could not cross over from the Fade. It needed a gullible host.

“The books in his bedchamber,” Cullen mused. “He’d begun to hunt.”

The last entry read three cryptic words: _“We’ve found her.”_

Cullen’s heart burned. He raced to the other pages, searching for more information. Praying to the Maker with every ounce of his breath that his theory would prove false.

Scanning quickly, he found it. A list of unassuming women’s names, not unlike a journal of conquests or the notches above a wealthy man’s bed. All the names were crossed out but one.

_~~Rosetta. Barmaid. Thirties. Married. Did not respond. No sign of magic.~~ _

_~~Constance. Milkmaid. Late teens. Oblivious. Did not respond. No sign of magic.~~ _

_~~Nesta. Butcher’s sister. Unmarried. Did not agree to meet. No sign of magic.~~ _

_Lottie. Glass merchant’s daughter. Early twenties. Likes lilies. Routinely responds to tokens of courtship. Lilies still in bloom after three weeks. Signs of magic._

“ _No,_ ” he said in disbelief.

“Cullen,” she gasped, her brows knitted in alarm.

“Dupre isn’t an apostate,” he said, feeling the blood drain from his face. “Lottie…was a hedge mage.”

They went by many names. _Hedge mages. Arcanist derangements. Shamans_. _Witches_. Untrained magic users who’d developed outside of a Circle’s guidance, some of whom possess abilities so mundane that they can slip right under the Chantry’s nose. Some are wildly powerful and toil in the dark, forbidden magic. Many succumb to the pull of spirits or demons from a lack of proper training. Others coexist peacefully in everyday society as folks with a peculiarly keen skill, like the capability to grow a lush garden or maintain a well-tempered fire.

Lottie had been a skilled medic, able to charm any who entered the clinic. Maybe, just maybe, some spirit healing lingered within her, an innate ability that put her on the path to becoming Neb’s apprentice. There was no way to know what Lottie knew. There was little time to process the information. He sensed it again, that Fade shift. A foreboding presence that slithered up his spine. He could feel the pressure in the room rising.

“Maker’s breath. Another trap. I should have known.” Cullen wielded his blade.

At that moment, the summoning circle flared, and a rush of darkness swirled in. A shade emerged, spindly and clawed and fashioned from evil itself. It stretched its limbs in a posturing display in front of the stairwell, blocking their exit. They had no option but to face it head-on.

It was Neb’s instinct to maintain a protective barrier at the start of a battle, so he was stunned to feel the coldness in its absence. She stood beside him, undecided. She looked as if she’d been told the most horrible news of her life, and were they not in immediate and pressing danger, he’d enfold her in his arms for as long as she needed.

“My mana isn’t at full strength. I don’t know if I—"

“I’ll handle this one. Just stay back,” he said, attempting to reassure her.

It struck first with a broad swipe. He dodged before its talons did any critical damage to his extremities, but not quickly enough to escape harm altogether. His right arm had been slashed. In a blink, it took advantage of his distraction and stretched its other arm forward, directly past him. The attack struck Neb in the sternum and sent her stumbling backward before collapsing onto what looked like blood-stained stones.

 _Shit_. “Over here!” he lured it away from her position by clanging his sword against the stone wall. It swayed side to side as if entranced by the gleaming steel. Eyeing Neb, he saw her inspecting a strand of rope or twine from the floor.

He leaned forward, unable to quell the stinging burn in his flesh. If he was going to deal the demon a blow, he had to think fast. As it arched forward for another strike, Cullen took a swift swing for its midsection, causing it to rear back in pain. He paced behind it, drawing himself closer to where Neb still sat. He glanced down and saw not twine, nor rope, draped across her palms.

 _Hair_.

“Cullen—this is _hers_ ,” she croaked. “I know it.” A wave of realization washed over them, and the thought was too gruesome to bear.

 _This is the spot where Lottie was murdered._ He felt a sudden gust of panic. It had been too long since he’d navigated such an emotional battlefield. Not since the Conclave. His thoughts were chaotic, but his face steeled. Cullen was not a man who diverted easily. Now would not be the time he began. There was a monster that needed defeating first.

The demon refocused its attention on them, having regained some strength. Cullen moved, luring it away from where Neb sat. Wherever he turned, it met him with another lunge that he'd block. It was like trying to fight and dance at the same time. With no shield to protect him, he was a sitting duck.

"Neb, I am without armor. I need assistance. _Anything_."

"She was here...she..."

The monster surged viper-fast, slicing even harder at his bleeding arm. He felt immense pain as if the demon's talons were laced in venom. The blood rushed in his ears, deafening him. He felt feverish and looked down to see his mangled flesh, his own skin dangling in blood-soaked ribbons. It started to swell from a generic sting into a white-hot agony in a matter of seconds. He collapsed, hitting the ground with a dense, painful thud.

He tried to raise his sword but lifting his arm felt like getting mauled all over again, and his hand shook too badly for stability. He had no other weapon. His right arm was useless. The demon reared its claws again and was distracted by a high-pitched shriek—a long wail of pure, sustained rage. Then a jagged shard of ice instantly knocked it back toward the wall.

Cullen's vision began to blur. _Keep it together, man_ , he told himself. _You will have time to go into shock later_. Yet his body won over his mind. He blinked slowly, losing consciousness. He opened his eyes and saw Neb approaching the creature. Her skin, hair, and clothing had become crystallized in a beautiful layer frost like some eldritch form of herself. She took deliberate, stiff steps, cornering her opponent. The room filled with a blinding blue light.

Then darkness took him.


	8. Chapter 8

The strain on his body was too great to warrant moving. He couldn't recollect where he was. Where his wife was. Concern for her wellbeing added another layer of pressure to his chest, which was already leaden with worry over his own. All he knew was pain and blackness as he came in and out of consciousness. No light, nothing tangible. Swirls of motion. Something cold. A burning sensation. Incomprehensible noises. More coldness. A touch. A metallic taste in his mouth. Sleep. Nothing. His muscles went slack, and his mind went blank.

Then warmth.

As he came to from coldness and confusion, a heat awakened him. Eager swipes, like a dog's tongue across his face.  _Griffon. His faithful companion._ Cullen laid there, unable to open his eyes, feeling the texture of the beast's warm tongue lap at his nose and lure him back from the abyss. As he slowly came into consciousness, Griffon's tongue grew more aggressive, abrasive, rough. Too rough to be a dog's tongue at all.

"No. Stop," he said, half-opening his eyes. The world was still black, but it was not a stone floor upon which he laid. He could not yet move but felt the gentle cushion of a bedroll beneath him. 

Hands on his face, his forehead. The sensation persisted.  _Not Griffon_. Some sort of cloth, rough muslin or gauze, wiping away the blood and gravel from his cheeks. Wherever he was, he was not alone.He opened his eyes fully to a window of starlight. Moonlight. The ghost of a hut reflected in the amber flame of a small flickering candle. He was alive. The demon was gone. And someone sat next to him in the painted black. He tried now, truly tried, to focus his eyesight and see who ministered him.  _Neb?_

No. The hands that washed him were not Neb's, but he recognized them. If anything, he recognized the bleak sensation he felt in their presence. He identified the liquid fabric enveloping their wrists. He followed the length of the being's arm until his eyes met the indistinguishable face of the hooded figure from Riverden. The thought that the entity absconded with him to an unknown location caused the first genuine spasm of fear through his body.

" _You_."

They said nothing. Satisfied with the state of his skin, they drenched the cloth in a bowl of water and wrung it with a thorough squeeze of their fingers. 

"You led me to the orchard. Why?" he demanded, his voice strained. 

No response. They moved away from him and seated themselves several feet away, their cloak camouflaging into the shadows. 

"My wife. Where has she gone?"

Motionless, they sat. Cullen could not sense their eyes—if they had any—upon him. Their approximate gaze landed on the candle's flame, transfixed on its swaying dance.

"Answer me." Cullen tightened his fists and felt the sting in his arm.  _His wounds_. They had been securely bandaged, his cuts sutured. " _Please._ "

Wincing in pain as he did so, he moved himself to a seated position to try to assess his condition. The monster did its share of damage before Neb finished it off. Cullen felt dreadful, he felt broken, he felt more terrible than he remembered feeling after a battle when he was a seasoned soldier when he was younger. He stayed seated for a moment, trying not to allow himself to be overcome by the sheer enormity of what had befallen him and Neb at the Dupre chateau. Lottie, Neb's protégé, a hedge mage. Manipulated assiduously by a wicked man. Lured away from kith and kin. Betrayed for the mana that coursed through her. All at the behest of a powerful, unknown demon.

When Neb asked her to stay, Lottie had been reassuring, calm, unalarmed—she'd made Neb believe that she was in no danger. All along, none of them knew how close she flirted with death.

“You should lay back down.” Cullen nearly leaped from his skin when the figure spoke to him. “Move too quickly, and your wounds will burst at the seams.”

 _That voice_ _._  Feminine, at once foreign and familiar. "You did this?"

"I am not the healing savant that your wife is. When we find her, you should ask her to tend to your wounds properly. All I could do was ensure you didn't bleed to death."

"Why does it sting so much?"

"Chasind Wildwine. Makes for a powerful antiseptic."

Finally, he asked the question that hung in the air, unanswered. They mended his wounds, they’d provided crucial assistance. Of a cryptic nature, true, but without it, they would not have ventured further on their quest. It was safe, he presumed, to assume that the stranger did not intend him any harm. “Who are you?” 

"It matters not," they said curtly.

"It matters a great deal."

"I'm not an enemy, if that is your concern."

"Then what is your objective? What do you stand to gain by helping me?"

Reluctantly, they reached upward and pulled the hood from their head. The blackness dissolved, and Cullen faced a familiar pair of high cheekbones—so sharp they looked ready to cut through the skin—almond eyes, cropped hair, and a determined, pointed chin. He cursed himself for not realizing it sooner by her reed-thin frame, by the eerie resemblance. By her sudden disappearance.

Lottie’s mother. 

“Mae,” he whispered. “That’s what they call you, isn’t it?”

“Once,” she replied. She did not answer him straight away. She still sat upright, staring at the opposite wall. Her hands were two fists laid in her lap.

 _Once_. She'd used that before. "What do they call you now?"

"Something else."

Cullen continued staring, unable to marshal his thoughts.  _Bandits,_ _varghests_ _—we never knew. They found Mae’s blood. Tattered cloth._  But they never found a body. “Your husband believes you to be dead.”

She nodded as if everything he said tallied with something she expected to hear. “As he should.”

It was automatic for a trained soldier to familiarize himself with his terrain. He took stock of the hovel with its straw ceiling and crumbling cork walls. There wasn't a sound to be heard for miles. Not long ago, he and Neb picked their way through Riverden's crowded streets, getting a feel for the city and weaving through clusters of commerce and thoroughfares. The space around him felt empty. "Where am I?"

"A dwelling."

" _Your_ dwelling?"

"No."

Cullen's frown deepened. Maker's breath, and people thought  _him_  to be brisk and unsociable. He was only guessing, but he estimated that she spent many years after her disappearance in solitude. 

“Where is Neb? Where’s my wife?”

“Far from here.”

Very well. He tried again, giving her a long, considering look and denying her the satisfaction of trying his patience. “Did you see a dog? A mabari?”

“The dog is following your instruction.” Cullen lifted an eyebrow, and she clarified. “He is keeping an eye on his lady.”

A chill rattled him. She had been watching them on the night of their departure. Maker only knows how long she had remained hidden in the corner of his eye, able to slip in and out of sight as she pleased.

“How do you conceal yourself in the way that you do?”

She idly shrugged her shoulders. “I am but a slip shadow in the darkness. It has always been my gift.”

“You have magic, you mean,” he guessed. 

“Yes.”

Maker's breath, two hedge mages in one family. “Did you know Lottie had magic, as well?”

Her mouth twisted in anguish and she once again looked as vulnerable as she’d been on their doorstep. “Not until it was too late.”

“I’ve never known a mage with such an ability before.” He had to admit, he found it both intriguing and vaguely threatening. A woman who could hide in the dark—literally shroud herself in shadow to conceal her form. Incredible tactical implications for a capable user, but terrifying in the wrong hands. 

“For me, it was always as innate as breathing." 

The realization dawned on him. "That's how you slipped away at the funeral."

"If I hadn't, Dupre's trail would have grown cold. The spirits told me that something laid hidden among the trees, but the earth told me not to approach. Whatever it was, powerful magic shielded it."

His mind was still coming to terms with her blithe sorcery. "Dupre had an army of undead guarding his secrets. You said the earth informed you of this?"

Her dark eyes inspected the room, occupied by only two bedrolls and an old dresser. Cullen estimated that she was contemplating how much of her history she should disclose. 

"It all began with flowers on the windowsill. When I felt joy, they thrived. When I wanted to hide, I remained unseen. It never occurred to me that these abilities were anything out of the ordinary until the Blight. The Archdemon had only just been defeated when I became engaged. The war sent many Chasind refugees to Riverden during that time. A young man took notice of me one day in the market, said he sensed it on me. I called it luck. He called it a blessing.”

Cullen knew little of Chasind Wilders outside of ancient Circle texts. By and large, they were isolated, relatively peaceful people who rarely ventured beyond their home in the southern marshes. Their religion was a complex pantheon composed of gods and nature spirits, some of which they shared with the mountain-dwelling Avvar. Their shamans were rumored to be powerful shapeshifters, and others are described to manipulate trees, plants, and the soil, thus making life in the frozen swamps more tolerable. 

“You had no knowledge of your magic until that time.”

“Indeed. They made camp at the crest of a pine grove. I would visit him under the shield of night. His people were slow to accept me at first, but a merchant’s daughter is bred to read the hearts of men. I brought them supplies. Over time, they learned to trust me. They told me they would teach me the ways of molding earth and a disguise. I had never seen magic celebrated like that before.”

“And the Chasind man?”

“Eldin. He was lonely and homesick and so very sweet.” Cullen noted that she had become more talkative. She’d recovered some animation and relaxed her spine a little, though it was clear she was still slow to reveal information. “It was wrong, I knew it was wrong, but I grew very fond of him.”

“You were in love with him.”

She gave a pained smile and nodded. “We had to remain circumspect. Luckily, Riverden women know how to keep secrets. We are expected to play the perfect hostess, to glean vital information from our husband’s competitors with a smile.”

“Yet you married Adolar. I don’t suppose he would approve of his wife trading kisses with a wilder.”

“Eldin's clan migrated back to the Wilds. He offered to steal me away, but I was young and too afraid to leave the only life I knew. So yes," she said with indignance, "I married him. I had two sons. His business thrived, and each night I quelled the pull of the Fade.” She shook her head as if repressing a dusty memory. “It nearly drove me to madness. I planned to run away. One evening, I ventured beyond the village and into the forest to commune with the earth—in the way the clan taught me. A spirit visited me and told me that I would soon have another child. A girl.”

Now he understood. “You stayed for your daughter.”

“She was the lotus that bloomed in the mud—my little Lottie. She gave me so much joy. I thought I could be happy again. Then one day, we were on the road together, and the forest called out to me. I couldn’t ignore the summons any longer.” 

"So you chose to stage your own death."

"I was wild with an undaunted power. The life of a merchant’s wife is not so wonderous a thing for a girl who is not so docile."

She told him that she paid their driver with all the gold coins in her pouch to flee the road and never return to their home. Using a jagged rock, she sliced her skin until she bled. She tore at her blood-stained dress and scattered her jewelry so it would appear the carriage had been robbed by bandits. 

"But my daughter," she said, "I knew not what road I would face. I wished better things for her."

"They found her alone in the carriage."

A line formed between her brows. "She was not alone. I waited to leave until passersby found her; until I knew she'd be safe."

"I assume you had no trouble leaving Adolar behind," he didn’t intend to make a joke of it, but her lips curled into a tiny smile at his remark.

Her voice became soft, almost dreamy. "No vows can bind you when your heart is free. Besides, that coin-hungry fool didn’t care a lick about me. I’m sure my death barely made a ripple on his younger years.” 

Her trauma ran deep. It showed in her demeanor, the way the blood drained from her face when she mentioned him. He wondered if she spent the entire span of her marriage in a heightened state of readiness, prepared for the next insult or, Maker take him, blow. Cullen tried to imagine the fragile, heartbroken man he met not long before as an arrogant and abrasive youth. Addressing his wife with only the indignant tilt of his chin. If he didn’t regret her loss then, he appeared to grieve her now. He wondered how much of it had been performative, masking hidden commercial greed. Given his banishment from the man's premises, there was little chance of finding out.

“Did you ever see Eldin again?”

She nodded infinitesimally, and her gaze instantly returned to the candle. He still found her hard to read, but he recognized the sadness that clouded her face.

Her silence caused a feeling of unease to creep over him. “Where is he?”

“Gone," she said through stilled lips. "An infection struck the village four years ago.”

She remained expressionless. At the funeral, she'd appeared so bewildered, so distraught. He'd remember her agonizing, sustained wailing for the rest of his life. He still questioned whether or not he faced the same person.

"Was it really you on our doorstep? The woman who wept in my wife's arms? Was all of that genuine, or a ploy?"

She surveyed him with a haughty amusement. She flexed her hands before idling them in her lap once more. "You think I manipulated her." 

"You think you didn't? You put her life in very real danger."

"That Trevelyan," Mae spoke. "It is for her that you would die. If you had to choose between the life of your king, your Divine, or your wife, you would choose her, would you not?"

"I would," he said. "Without hesitation."

She nodded with some semblance of graciousness. "Then you, of all people, should understand how I felt about my daughter."

Of course, he understood. He'd felt love. Against his better judgment. Against everything he'd ever been taught or told was possible. He imagined she kept a watch on her daughter's life from afar, returning to Riverden on occasion from her life in the Wilds. She likely felt anxious, unwelcome in Lottie's cosmopolitan life, as he had once felt unwelcome in Neb's. But he ventured forth anyway for a taste of romance. He needed to remember who he was talking to; a woman who made a painful sacrifice and lost everyone she cared about in the process. He knew the regret she felt. He understood she would have stayed behind, abandoning safety and sanity, if she'd known what Lottie was.

"She would have been an incredible healer," he said, with genuine sincerity.

"Yes, she would have," she murmured. They remained silent for a few minutes longer. She assumed her noble posture, likely ingrained from a lifetime of societal grooming. Cullen reckoned he'd pressed her beyond her level of comfort, and should instead resume the quest at hand. 

"My wife intends to kill Dupre."

"I know. And you hope to reach her before she does."

He groaned. The pain still ebbed through his body. Cullen hated feeling useless. "If you can help me find her, I will see that he is brought to justice. You have my word."

A small smile touched her lips and was gone. It made him feel ill at ease as if she withheld a profound truth. "We should have no trouble tracking her. Look outside."

Curious, Cullen took a deep breath. With a heavy grunt, he pushed himself up onto his knees and then to his feet, wavering for a moment before he could catch his balance. The mix of physical shock and emotional exhaustion was an overwhelming force. Maker's bones, there was not a vessel in his bloodstream that didn't feel bruised, not a muscle that didn't seize from pain. Under his bandages, his left arm began a slow, insistent throbbing. He was not sure of how long he could stand upright, let alone propel his legs forward.

But he had no Void-ridden choice. He glanced out the window toward the two moons, looking as bright and polished as sterling coins, encroaching on the western horizon. It would be dawn soon.

And there was snow. In the middle of summer.

There was a path of frost snaking across the countryside, through the forest, and over the black hills in the distance. It was as if the Drakon River had frozen over and magically transported itself to its new home on-land. The ice was unyielding and blinding, even in moonlight. Neb had powerful magic, but she also had Griffon. And Griffon was a powerful tracker. Cullen knew, in his heart of hearts, that following that trail would lead him directly to them, and subsequently, Langdon Dupre. His only concern now was to make it there in time.

"Before we leave, have your spirit companions told you anything else about Dupre that we should be aware of?"

She paused a moment to look him over, inspecting his body for any remaining injuries. Likely to reassure herself that he'd be healthy enough to make the trek. He took it as an affirmation when she no longer examined his bandages. "Many people are afraid of him. Some hate him, but he does as he pleases. Such is the way of the Dupre family; anyone who protested them ended up destitute. Or dead."

"About what I expected."

"His grandfather was a chevalier. He knows combat like a lover."

An even greater incentive to press onward into the creeping dawn.

"All right," he said. "I'm ready."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final Interlude: The Fluffening

_Skyhold, 9:42 Dragon_

Though members of the Inquisition’s inner circle may disagree, Cullen was rarely ill-tempered—at least, as he saw it. Blunt and disdainful, yes, most of the time, but only because his work demanded perfection. The fate of Thedas depended on its success.

“Why is Sister Leliana’s report absent from this pile?”

The page, no older than twenty, teetered in his boots as Cullen sorted through the parchment. “W-which report, Commander?”

“The one I requested to have on my desk by mid-morning. It’s urgent.”

“S-ser, I apologize! There m-must have been some oversight.”

“Any reason behind your incompetence is irrelevant. Track it down. _Now_ ,” he ordered.

Work continued at the usual pace, pressing and dire. All things considered, he was feeling better. Stronger. More grounded. After years of fidelity to the Order, he was forced to assess himself and confront some difficult questions. He had seen those who clung to lyrium out of fear and habit, and he denied himself that path. But while lyrium’s siren call still summoned him in the ink of night, he faced a new conundrum, new anxiety that spawned a cycle of self-recrimination.

 _Why can I not steer her from my mind?_ He had toyed with seeking the Maker’s guidance through prayer, but he was not sure if he was prepared to ask the question out loud. Perhaps he was not yet prepared to hear the answer.

Much as he tried not to dwell on the events of the day that Neb sang to him and quelled his mania, images kept coming back to him; made all the more delicious for their being forbidden.

He was a military man. When he thought of a commanding officer, it was supposed to be with respect—in this case a woman who possessed a strange magic, who confronted demons in an apocalyptic future, who could sing a note so high he feared it would cause the windows to crumble in their panes, who sacrificed precious time on an imperative scouting mission in the Hinterlands to ensure refugees received proper medical care and food. Instead, when he thought of her he could only conjure warm hands, ripe lips, and thoughtful, honey brown eyes.

The single vision that his mind could focus on was the sight of her touching his breastplate ever-so-gently and looking at him with _those eyes_. The knowledge that at that moment they were equals, and he could put his entire self in her hands and trust that she would keep him safe. He never imagined this. He never believed anyone would be so kind to him, or sympathetic with him.

He never imagined he'd fall in love. That could be the only answer to the madness that consumed him upon thinking of her; the overwhelming curiosity to let go of the ledge and jump into the unknown abyss, for surely that black pit was preferable to the purgatory he dwelled.

In love. With the most powerful person on the continent. A former Circle mage no less, a wielder of the very power that haunted his dreams. He enjoyed a challenging opponent, but in the battle with his heart he’d have to say that the damned thing wasn’t playing fair.

Cullen knew he had to subdue this newfound affliction before it exacerbated any further. A tiny spark could ignite into a roaring flame if it weren’t snuffed quickly and with precision. At first, he tried to give himself credit. It was his mind merely pandering to a harmless fantasy, nothing more. True, he was not one to indulge in brief affairs, but he was still flesh and blood. Inquisitor Neb Trevelyan was not a difficult woman to fall for. She was sweet, she was driven, she was vivacious. She lacked confidence at times, but when given a chance she could be commanding as well. She performed amazing feats without ever realizing it. She was more than a pair of deft hands, expressive eyes, and a tantalizing mouth. And abundant curves. And legs for days.

Maker’s breath, if he wasn’t out of his depth before there was no denying it now. Every time he saw her, which was never as often as he liked, the flame grew brighter, steadier, less likely to flicker out. At this rate, if they did not defeat Corypheus soon, he predicted that within the next year those feelings would eventually cause his very skin to burn and set him alight in a rapturous, towering blaze. Cullen resigned himself to that fate because he couldn’t imagine _not_ continuing to think of Neb; for another year, another ten years, for the rest of his Void-ridden life.

They could not be more fundamentally different. A former Circle mage. A former Templar. A woman of noble birth. A farmer's son. Their friendship—if he was warranted to label it as such—sprouted from the most unglamorous of circumstances. Cullen also spent the last decade in a lyrium-addled fugue that he'd been so desperately trying to escape. He needn't fool himself over how difficult it would be, that his pain would not spontaneously disappear and they would find a miracle solution. How could he possibly benefit her?

Cullen startled at Neb's signature knock on the door. His heart simultaneously leaped and cowered. He hadn't expected her to pay him a visit, with her having so recently returned from her sojourn to the village of Crestwood. _Oh, merciful Maker_ , he pleaded, _grant me the resolve to face her in this pathetic state._

"Enter," he said, and then fretted over whether that sounded too impersonal. "Come in?"

The door veered open, and she approached the desk using casual, comfortable steps. Her cheeks were bronzed from weeks of sunshine and travel. She looked radiant.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," she spoke.

He rubbed the back of his neck to ease some tension building there. "Yes—I mean, no! Everything is fine, thank you."

"How are you feeling?"

"I am adjusting, in no small part to you.” She beamed with pride, flashing straight, white teeth. That smile alone could charm a bear to give up its own skin, he was sure of it. “Is there anything you need?”

“I was wondering if…” she trailed off and Cullen watched her throat swallow tightly. “I was wondering if you had a moment to talk? Alone?”

He braced. “Alone?”

She gestured to the door. “Outside?”

“O-of course,” he stuttered. It felt like a second heart hammered furiously in his chest, erratic and constricting. Taking her lead, they ventured forth. He squared his shoulders as he walked.

They kept an idle pace along the battlement. Skyhold was alight with activity. Soldiers operated their stations under well-regulated schedules. From his view of the adjacent balcony, Cullen saw Lady Vivienne’s silhouette orchestrating what looked to be a particularly heated academic discussion with Solas. Mother Giselle led midday vespers in the gardens below. It was a beautiful place, and the first structure he’d ever considered _home_. Taking time to awe at the fortress they’d fortified proved a decent enough distraction from the thudding in his chest.

"Are you all right?" she asked, pulling him from his thoughts.

He acted offense. "Whatever gave you an impression of the opposite?”

She tilted her head to one side. "You seem a bit agitated like something else is weighing on you. I hope you know by now that you can tell me what’s bothering you."

“Was there not a matter you wished to discuss?” Cullen asked, trying to divert her. He was terrible at playing coy.

“Not until you tell me,” she insisted.

He was so surprised by her perceptiveness that he did not even think to deny the charge immediately. "I appreciate it, Neb, but I don’t believe it is anything you’d want to hear."

Her narrowed eyes inspected him. “So there _is_ something.”

In a continued attempt at appearing nonchalant, he gave a blithe shrug. “We all have woes from time to time.”

“Are you ill? Surely you would inform me of that.”

He gave a nervous chuckle. “I am certain your healer’s intuition would recognize my symptoms before even I became aware of them.”

“And your family—your sister?”

“All safe and comfortable in South Reach. May we speak of something else?”

He noted her hands. They’d balled tightly into fists, blanching before his very sight. “I can’t imagine it could be love, could it?”

He opened his mouth eagerly searching for a jesting remark but found himself wordless. Damn his thick skull to the Void. He could feel his own stupefied expression as his silence ran too long to form a plausible denial.

“Cullen?” she said, her voice barely above a gasp. “Maker, you’ve—you’ve fallen in love?”

His hand instinctively shot back up to the base of his skull. Kneading softly, he tried to quell the urge to throw himself off the battlements for getting himself into this situation. “It’s complicated.”

“With whom?”

“Nice weather today,” he spoke with a complete lack of tact and delicacy. “It seems my forecast wasn’t too far off.”

“Has she rejected you? Is that why you’re acting this way?”

“She hasn’t rejected me, exactly,” he said in a low voice. He scrunched his face at his own stupidity. _Maker_ , _please strike me from this plane of existence. I am prepared to serve you at your side._

“Then what? Is she married? Betrothed?”

“That’s not it. She is—there is just—our differences in status do not permit—”

Now Neb looked even more astonished. “Oh, Maker's tears, how could I not see it until now?”

While he was grateful for the reprieve from an incriminating interrogation, he felt a wave of concern at the sight of her face. Her mouth was agape, and she covered it with her hand while her eyes glistened.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“…Josie,” she rasped.

He cocked his head at the mention of the Ambassador’s name. “Pardon?”

“It’s Josephine, isn’t it?” Neb walked a few paces ahead of where he stood. “She told me that she’d taken an interest in someone; some mysterious gallant knight. They’ve been carrying out an _affair du coeur_ due to their difference in standing.” She spun around so quickly her hair swung from one shoulder and over to the opposite. “Those lilies on her desk. Those were from you, weren’t they?”

Cullen gave a sharp bark of laughter. He _had_ to. The Inquisitor’s dearest friend was nice enough, poised, and easy to look at, but the two of them had seldom little in common. Lady Montilyet’s love of long negotiations, political dealings, noble houses, unnecessarily complicated confections, and vexingly dull parties perplexed him.

“A gallant knight I am not, neither in Ambassador Montilyet’s nor anyone’s eyes. You have my word on that.”

“I see,” she stopped, eyeing him with some misgiving. Then she composed herself while wiping the wetness from her lashes.

“Are you crying?” he asked.

Neb shook her head. “I am just acting the fool.”

He grew defensive on her behalf. “You are anything but a fool.”

She found a tiny smile at that. “So…if it isn’t Josie, then Cassandra?”

“It’s _not_ Cassandra,” he said in a testy voice. By Andraste’s ashes, she was still on him about this, and he had nowhere to hide. Had he any idea that unrequited love would be this torturous and miserable he would have tossed himself into the ocean to drown by now.

“Then who?”

“Neb, please—"

“Scout Harding?”

“Scou—what? Again, _no_.”

“Someone you met at Skyhold?”

“No, we did not meet at Skyhold,” he said, for it was not a lie.

“But she lives here?” she guessed. “Or frequently visits?”

“Neb, I cannot explain my circumstances to you,” he said firmly. “I would rather we not discuss this any longer.”

She was silent for a moment. “May I meet her?”

“Neb!”

“I promise to be gracious and boast only your most sterling qualities.”

“That’s not possible. Meeting, I mean,” he groaned. “Why do you take such heed of my private affairs?”

“ _Because_! The reason I brought you here was—never mind," she trailed off. "Perhaps you’re right, and for once I’m the ass.”

It was in the way she stood, knees bent, chin tilted down, eyes searching the ground. It was in the way she wrung her hands together, winding them around each other in a cyclical rhythm. It was in the way she mirrored his nervous expression, the one he’d worn around her for weeks. At that moment, Cullen knew that she felt the same way about him as he did for her.

“ _Oh_ ,” was the only sound he could make.

“Cullen,” she said his name with such a sincerity he nearly shattered at the sound. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course. You’ve proven yourself to be an incredible leader.”

“No, Cullen, not as the Inquisitor. I mean do you trust _me_ , the woman? Is it just my imagination, or do you sense something? Between us?”

Maker’s breath, she was confessing to him. Her voice shook, but she once again proved to be the stronger party in that she revealed her secret first. Neb was so comfortable being vulnerable; he never thought that would be a quality he’d come to admire in a person.

There was no time to doddle and thank the Maker, Andraste, and the whole bloody elven pantheon if need be for granting him this fortune. In a thousand lifetimes, he could never repay this debt. Neb Trevelyan had feelings for him. Now was the opportunity to flee if he wanted to keep things friendly, but he didn’t. So he reached out and cupped her cheek, startling her. She didn’t pull away, looking up at him with wide, questioning eyes. Her chestnut hair glistened in the midday sun which highlighted the natural glow in her sweetly appled cheeks. She truly was a striking woman. He cursed himself for not acknowledging it ages ago. He would not hesitate, not any longer.

_Be honest._

“There is no other person on this earth I trust more,” he said. “To know that you feel the same—I never thought it was possible.”

Her smile strengthened. She raised her arm to brush her knuckles over his hand. His heart leaped.

“What kept you?”

“You are not a mere scullery maid. You are the Inquisitor, a noblewoman at that. We are at war, and frankly, what quality could I possibly possess that would ever draw someone like you to me?”

“I still don’t understand it, to be quite honest, but I feel like I can take on a thousand darkspawn when you’re with me.”

“And you make me feel hopeful simply by being near. Like I can endure any hardship. I’m rather unsure of all this myself, but I would like nothing more than to…” he paused.

“’To…’?”

Words. He was always dreadful with words. It was far more efficient to be direct. His hands fell to her waist, tugging her closer to him. Cullen leaned his face toward hers, and she instinctively shut her eyes. He was close enough to smell the scented oils on her skin and feel the warmth of her breath against his mouth.

“Commander!” an exasperated voice intruded. Cullen jerked his head toward the sound and the page from this morning raced along the parapet in his direction, waving white vellum over his head like a flag. “I’ve recovered the report, ser!”

 _No, no, no, no, not right now._ The added urgency fed the pressure building under his skin. He needed to divert him, quickly. So he opted for the only way he knew how.

“If you’ll recall, I requested the report _on my desk_ ,” he said sharply. The page swiftly stopped in his tracks.

“But…ser? You said it was urgent.”

“ _It can wait_!” he snarled. It couldn’t, not much longer, but he’d make it up to Leliana somehow. Knowing her, she currently kept an adroit eye on his foolishness from a distance and delayed the damned report herself at his own expense. Or possibly the page’s, who hunched his shoulders and tucked his head inward like a scolded puppy. When dealing with the Spymaster, it was impossible to know for certain.

“Right. So, I’ll leave them in your office, then,” the boy responded before backing away hurriedly. Cullen could manage to have a reputation as an aggressive perfectionist amid a war. The page would be fine, maybe even glean something from it.

He turned his attention back to Neb, who idly studied on her boots.

“Forgive me,” he supplicated.

"You could be softer, you know," she scolded him playfully.

"You think that's what I want of my charges?" he asked in mock disapproval. "For them to be _softer_? To be easily distracted from their assignments?"

She met his eyes again, smiled, and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “But Cullen, really, if this is an inopportune time—”

Eager to act, he grabbed her waist before she could finish her sentence and sealed his lips against hers.

He was kissing her. He was kissing _Neb Trevelyan_. The Inquisitor. The leader of the faithful. And she was responding to him. Once the initial shock over his brazenness subsided, her hands cupped the sides of his face and curled into his hair. She tightened in his arms and kissed him harder. He didn’t mind when she gave the strands a gentle tug, pulling him down to her and sending shocks through him.

It felt so natural, kissing her. Her mouth was pliant against his, and suppler than he could ever dream. She leaned into him. One of his hands slid up her back, and he pulled her closer, hugging her firmly toward the steel of his breastplate. Void take that blasted piece of metal for preventing him from feeling her flush against his chest. He needed to experience the warmth of her, her softness. For the first time, he regretted donning it.

A part of him, some distant, muffled voice, told him he was moving too fast. His face burned hot, and his breathing ran ragged, so he broke their kiss and buried his nose in her hair which faintly smelled of sweet vanilla and spice.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That may have been forward of me. Was that all right?”

Neb breathed hard against his neck and the warm rush of her lips so near his throat sent a thrill through him. She raised her mouth to his ear.

“But what about your paperwork?” she whispered.

He laughed gently. “Fie to the paperwork. This is _my_ choice.”

With that, she cradled his head, and he let her guide him. She stretched upward, pushing her mouth firmly against his. A sigh of contentment escaped them both. Her lips were persuasive, brushing side to side. Her fingers traveled back to his face and rested firmly on his cheekbones. His bones had already memorized the feel of her pressed against him. His mind was a dizzy, joyous, incoherent whirl.

Cullen wanted to focus on the elation at hand, not the rue to follow. It had never been easy for him to disengage from melancholy and regret. For now, with this woman in his arms, his body ignited with a surge of optimism. He would endure this blaze. He would carry this flame and remain alit with its serenity.

As the Maker was his witness, he would do right by her.


	10. Chapter 10

 

The sky transitioned from pink dawn to a blue summer morning, and they persisted. From morning to golden noon, they endured. When the sun sank to an orange peel on the western horizon, they endured. Then night came, with its panoply of white stars dotting the endless heavens, and they persisted.

The summer night air was crisp and velvety. The moons flowered toward full. The hilt of Cullen’s blade shimmered in the ethereal starlight. Tracking Neb and Griffon had been easy. It was evident to both that their mission required equal parts stealth and speed, so they covered ground quickly and efficiently. Cullen said a short prayer to the Maker that they find his wife in time.

Mae, his taciturn and restless escort, was an incredible traveler, and clearly felt at ease among narrow streams and overgrown paths. He half expected her to abandon him on a whim and go wherever her spirit guardians guided her. Cullen would never feel completely comfortable in the presence of wisps. He need not think of her silent, unseen companions in remote proximity as he hunted a rogue murderer and the love of his life.

The pursuit was hard on his wounded body, and he frequently stumbled over the slick, cold ground. He’d only wished they had time to return the manor for their horses. Maker willing, they were still there. Cullen saw no sign of hoof prints in the ground, leaving him to assume Neb traveled by foot. At least the frost didn’t deter him, nor did the rain that pelted his face. Cullen never minded the cold. There had been a fire burning inside of him for years, and the thought of Neb provided the kindling to keep it going. Their journey passed swiftly enough. Silent and uneventful, for neither possessed a penchant for conversation.

“Rest now,” she said when he staggered. They’d made their way deep into the forest to the hills. Mae shared strips of dried game and sips of acrid wildwine to sustain him. He heard a change in the canopy above—a calm after the thrum of rain.

“We’re close. We need to keep moving,” he insisted. In the clear, calm of midnight, he felt only an eagerness to charge forward.

“In a moment,” she said, catching his elbow. “You’re still wounded.”

She was right. His body throbbed, and his mangled arm needed a proper salve. He finished his dried meat and closed his eyes, taking a meditative breath, and prayed for the resolve to persevere with haste. When he blinked them open, he caught Mae’s dark eyes staring into him like two reflecting pools, casting back his own shadowy visage. He felt uneasy upon looking too closely.

“There is something else you’re hiding from me,” he speculated.

Mae cast her gaze downward, inspecting the ruts and footprints on the path.

“It’s about Lottie’s body,” she began.

“They said she was found on the Chantry steps,” he spoke gently. “Was that you?”

She swallowed heavy and winced. She gave a silent nod of affirmation. He knew how delicate the subject was, the unspoken corollary thought that her mind felt wildly chaotic, as if she’d been in a state of conjuring and suppressing painful experiences and was running out of room in her skull to sort through them all. Just as he felt, many years ago.

“You have carried many burdens,” he tried to console her. “I’m sorry.”

She glanced back at him. “You have my thanks.”

“We will find him,” he said. Mae only nodded before leading him again on the snowy path.

Were it not for the ice, there was no discernable trail to speak of. Mae loped ahead, then waited, straining all her magical senses for any sign of danger. They’d gone another three-quarter mile when they came upon the full mouth of cavern sitting by itself in a forest clearing.

“The path leads here,” she said.

“His hideout, perhaps?”

“As good a place as any,” she listened to the winds again, but he heard it too: a rustling. Something raced toward them among the bramble. The weapon at his side was useless given the lack of mobility in his arms. After the horrors endured over the last day, whatever monstrosity approached held no particular terror for him. The charging shape had a familiar gait, a husky frame and closely cropped ears.

“It’s Griffon!” Cullen kneeled to greet the hound’s piggish squeals of delight. His amber eyes and white face were indiscernible in the darkness, but Cullen ran his hands over his snout and affectionately squeezed him by the scruff of his neck. “Oh, it feels like a lifetime since I’ve seen you, old friend.”

“He waited—to lead you the rest of the way,” Mae said.

“Is our Lady inside?”

Griffon gave an eager whine and spun.

“Then I hope we’re not too late.”

With Griffon in the lead, the three of them were swallowed by the cavern. The black void was soon replaced with the orange glow of torches lighting a clear trajectory toward the back. A few bags of supplies lined the ground: sacks of flour, wheels of cheese, bottles of wine, a table and chair best suited for a watchman. Cullen looked around with interest. It was always an automatic thing to assess and catalog his surroundings.

“I hear them,” Mae spoke. Soon, he did, too. They followed the echoing waves of voices to a vast, sunken cavern.

“ _Langdon Dupre, I now charge you with murder. I’m here to stop you_.” Cullen identified Neb’s faint voice, and he gasped her name. Peering over the ledge, he watched the altercation below.

Neb paced the rim of the circular grotto, staff in-hand. Her prosthetic hand flexed then contracted into a fist, and Cullen heard the crackle of frost magic. He was relieved to see her well, but his eyes immediately spanned to her opponent. Dupre looked as broad as his portrait. His head was shaved bald, and the firelight cast harsh shadows across his full face. He matched Neb in equal paces, his sword drawn.

“You must be the famed Inquisitor Trevelyan,” Langdon’s booming voice ricocheted off the cave walls. “Before you came along, we’d only talk of crops and commerce in these parts. I’ve long envied your exploits—but then, it is always fashionable to envy one so renowned.”

“We need to think up a plan,” Cullen whispered. He turned to face Mae but found only Griffon at his side. True to her nature, she’d blended into the shadows and left him in the lurch. Maker only knew what she was plotting.

“Very well. I suppose it’ll just be me, then,” he griped. Cullen held up a finger and pointed at Griffon. “You. Stay put until I give an order. Don’t make a sound.”

The dog assumed a commanding stance and took his post. Cullen crept lower to the ground, following the ledge as it teetered downward. His eyes never left his wife as their conversation grew louder.

She laughed gravely. “We are well past flattery, you sorry excuse for a man.”

“My. Such a harsh insult,” Langdon feigned offense. “Did they not tutor you in the art of conversation in that backwater Circle of yours?”

“I dare say not. Someone pilfered my Circle’s books on proper etiquette.”

“So you found my library, did you?”

“And your writings. Your laboratory. You’re a monster.”

“I prefer ‘academic,’” he retorted with some sanctimoniousness. “To think: I had such faith in my staff to keep the manor free of intruders. It is so hard to find good help these days, no?”

“You mean your legion of undead? Do you truly think you can remain in control of them?”

That familiar prickle inflamed Cullen’s senses once more. A dark arcane presence lurked in the vicinity, he was sure.

“The token they wear is of a unique design. The hoard answer to a higher being, and the higher being answers to me.”

“Shut it, Dupre. You are playing a dangerous game with an entity you can’t begin to comprehend.”

“We understand each other quite well,” he said. “Together, we shall accrue wealth and glory beyond your reckoning.”

“Dupre, you are courting a _demon_. Surely, you must realize that.”

Langdon looked amused. “Most insulting. Most insulting, indeed. Nay, Inquisitor. I conquered a _god_.”

“Don’t be so deluded.”

“Tell me, Inquisitor. When you resided in your Circle tower, gorging yourself on its forbidden knowledge, did you not recognize the privilege to which you were bestowed—answers to life’s greatest riddles? The ability to access the Fade in a manner so intimate? I am not a mage, yet I have accomplished more with that knowledge in my hands. And all it took was some light reading.”

“And a demon.”

“Bite your tongue,” he warned.

"Any being that demands wickedness is wicked itself," she spat. "You are nothing but a blind fool."

"The fool," he assumed a fighting stance, "is you."

"What I am matters not," Neb said. "I will avenge the life you stole."

He smiled with a brutish satisfaction. It was a smile Cullen had seen before, on thieves, on cutthroats, on a Templar Knight-Commander. In-person, Langdon was impressively tall. A giant of a man, and hard in every way. His face was severe and bony. His bunched muscles were hardened. His black eyes were unwinking. His demeanor was unyielding. His sword untarnished.

“A pity, that girl,” Langdon said. “Her father was eager to see her married off. All I needed were a few boastful words before I could woo her. She had such great breeding. Shame I had little use for a wife. Neither even realized the wealth of magic that coursed within her.”

“Her name was Lottie, and she was my apprentice,” Neb said through gritted teeth.

“Ah, yes. She sang your praises frequently. It grew insufferable. You know, I think a part of her hoped that you would come for her when she learned what was in store.”

“Stop talking,” Neb demanded.

“But you must understand that we needed her. Thanks to Lottie, a god has been reborn.”

“You and your demon die tonight,” she said.

“Still think you can defeat me,” he sounded almost bored. “Besting the Inquisitor would be a glorious gem in my trove of victories. Be a dear and say hello to Lottie for me.”

Neb growled. Cullen could smell the static scent of lyrium as her arm charged a spell. Dupre’s wrist contorted and Cullen identified the hilt of a dagger under his sleeve. If she cast at the same moment he threw it, she’d have no time to evade it. When the flash of magic lit the cavern, and the man took aim, Cullen leaped from his hiding spot and dashed into the fray.

“Neb, wait!” he shouted, ripping his sword from its hilt and slicing it through the air. There were sparks and the sound of metal driving into the far wall. In a well-timed motion, he’d successfully blocked the knife-throw.

“Cullen,” Neb sounded surprised. “What are you doing?”

His forearm burned, and he looked down to see scarlet patches forming on his wrappings where the stitches had torn. He’d lost enough blood as it was, and the effect made him light-headed.

“Don’t do this,” he begged.

“You are in no condition to stop me,” she said, taking a stance in front of him.

“Neb—”

“This is not your fight. Stand back.”

She placed a hand against his chest and gazed up at him. Slowly, she added enough pressure to push him backward. With his arms rendered useless once more, he had no choice but to allow her to fight alone.

“Langdon Dupre,” she spoke firmly, “let the battle begin.”

With a shout, Langdon lunged across the ground, driving his sword straight for Neb's heart. She sensed it and danced away from the tip of the blade. And danced again, when he sliced and hewed into the air. Cullen stared, anxious and amazed. He noted her posture, how light on her feet she was, how quick and assured her movements were. Neb swung the bladed end of her staff, the silverite glinting in the insufficient firelight, and swiped at Langdon's ear. Then she inelegantly missed, and Langdon gave a dark cackle.

Langdon had a seasoned chevalier's form and the confidence of a man who'd managed to best his opponents within a few rounds. Cullen would wager he’d dispatched many swordsmen in combat. And his wife—looking undaunted and ferocious and alight with righteousness—was now engaged in a furious duel with him. Their weapons flew swiftly and mercilessly at one another. Cullen took a step forward, far from certain whether he should attempt to enter the battle.

A cloud of frost struck Langdon's eyes, and Neb redoubled her attack, pummeling him in the skull so hard he briefly wavered. More grunts, more thrusts, the clash of metal spraying white-hot sparks into the air. Langdon charged forward, his blade upraised, and Cullen held his breath. Afraid to watch. Fearful of the outcome. Neb fell back as a wall of pure ice cut through the air, potentially slowing him.

A mere blink in the battle, though, as Langdon snarled, reared his arm and reduced the wall to frozen crumbs with his bare fist. The two wove their weapons together in a complicated pattern of offense and defense.

Then there was a rush—a clash—a cry of great anguish, and Langdon took a knee. The man gripped his side, blood spilling down the fabric where Neb punctured him. After kicking his blade away, she approached him, the blade-end of her staff pointed menacingly at his throat.

“Never will you sing at the Maker’s side in the Golden City. May you toil forever in the silent Void. _Die_.”

She’d won. This was it. Maybe it was panic, maybe it was stubbornness, but Cullen summoned enough energy to meet her side before she struck. “Stop, Neb!”

“I told you to _stay back_.”

“He’s wounded. We can apprehend him. If you halt, we can give Lottie justice.”

“After all you’ve witnessed, do you still believe he deserves mercy?”

“The man is an unholy monster, and the world would be better without him. But this has never been about Langdon Dupre, you know that.”

She raised her blade again. “Do not attempt to manipulate me, Cullen!”

“I’m not!” he shouted, enfolding her. “Come here.”

“No, let go of me!”

She fought him, but he held fast. He positioned her in his arms and crushed her against him so hard she had no chance of breaking free. Neb uttered another cry of outrage and struggled furiously in his embrace, kicking at him hard enough to leave bruises.

He let her.

“Listen to me,” he whispered. “This is not who you are.”

She made a mad scramble for freedom, grunting and growling so loudly he relinquished her.

“You don’t understand! You _can’t_!” she said, her voice shaking. “Cullen, she was _me_.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, trying to keep his voice as low and level as he could.

“She was _everything_ I could have been! Without the Circle. Without the Rebellion. With the freedom to _be_. Young, and dreaming, and full of hope, and _he—”_ she pointed to where Dupre kneeled, “He _took_ that from her! And you. Don’t. Understand.”

With every word, she pounded furiously against his chest, so hard it knocked the air from his lungs.

He let her.

Again and again. Blow upon blow. He would have bruises over bruises, raw and welting and blackened. And then everything stopped. Neb’s raving. The beatings. Neb took shuddering breaths, and Cullen saw the wetness in her wide eyes.

She cried. For the first time since she’d heard the news, she was weeping. Her body tensed, and she gasped heavily as if there was not enough room in her chest for breath.

Cullen stepped closer, close enough to touch her. “It’s true. I don’t understand. But sometimes it seems we’re not given a choice in this life, even though we always have one. It so happens that the better decision is rarely the easier one. Neb, this is _your_ choice. So I ask: is killing this man what you truly want?”

She opened her mouth as if to speak but could not form the words. She looked so woebegone that Cullen wanted to cradle her like a bruised child. Then she shook her head and folded into his arms, and he had no choice but to do so.

“I just want her back, Cullen,” Neb’s body shook with every word, and her face grew darker and more solemn. “I want her back so badly.”

“I know,” he said, cradling her head against his shoulder. “So do I.”

The two of them turned when Dupre began to laugh, low and staccato. His entire body convulsed, and an unseen mist of overwhelming energy emanated from where he sat.

“Neb,” he said, “move back.”

As the two of them cautiously backed away, Dupre stood. His motions were mechanical, stiff as if he no longer had control of his form. He smeared his blood-soaked hand across his forehead like a macabre war paint.

“You have not won this. The girl was merely a conduit. _I_ am the true vessel. Come, Avarice!”

Dupre’s body stretched as the transformation took over him. His voice had already roughened, his blood heated. Then his form completely transitioned, and the abomination stepped forward.

Avarice was gargantuan. The demon’s many limbs stretched and enveloped a chitinous torso. Its feet stomped warnings into the earth. Jagged bones framed its skeletal head in a ghastly aureole. Folds of skin cascaded down its neck like fleshy strands of pearls. Cullen had never seen one in-person. He didn’t know of any Templar who had.

“Cullen, what is Avarice?”

He shook his head, unbelieving. “An uncontrollable greed. Stronger than Desire. Maker, they are demons of legend. It must have fed on Riverden for ages.”

“We have to stop it.”

Its enormous frame was swelling toward them, its flattened face snarling, its numerous hands silver with claws, and Cullen felt doused in Neb’s barrier spell, and she pressed him behind her.

“Neb, my arm.” He implored her, and in another whisper, he felt the skin under his bandages begin to clot and repair as her healing magic coursed through his veins. He felt renewed and regained enough mobility to wield his weapon again.

Avarice struck first with a sweeping swing of one of its arms. The ground shook with its every movement. A wall of ice took the brunt of its force. When it reared for another blow, Cullen heard a loud bark and watched Griffon sprint toward the demon at breakneck speed. With a flex of his haunches, he launched himself upward in a grand leap. When the mabari’s jaws sank into the monster’s hide, it screeched, halting its second attack. It attempted to fling him off, but Griffon’s teeth burrowed deeper.

“It’s distracted!” Neb cried, and Winter’s Grasp seized hold of its left foot. Avarice faltered, then one of its hands gripped the dog’s body, tore him away, and tossed him with great force. Cullen watched in horror as Griffon’s body met the cavern wall with a thud and slumped into the shadows, unmoving.

Cullen _hated_ the demon so much that his head nearly split apart. He held his sword aloft and charged at its injured leg with an anguished yell. Neb, too, was furious again and looked like cold starlight on a solstice night. Suddenly, and violently, magic poured from her body in a blinding rush. She made a pushing motion with her prosthetic hand, and the crystal in her staff bathed the cavern in blue light. Avarice cried out at their strikes, stumbling before rising again on the icy ground, choking on a flurry of frozen crystals. She pushed harder, freezing the air around them, and the white-hot burn of ice licked at Cullen’s skin beyond his barrier.

Cullen slashed at its leg once more, and his blade broke through the tough hide. Avarice was not immune to their assault, but when the leg gave out, it lashed once more. One mighty swing sent the two of them sliding backward. Cullen toppled, and his head struck a boulder. His body felt like the flaking granite around him, at once stable and so easy to crack.

“You’ll—not—defeat—me,” its deadly voice muttered.

“Cullen!” Neb cried out, and he looked to where she fell. Her mechanical arm sparked and jerked. It was apparent that the mechanisms had been crushed in the attack, rendering it useless. There was a faint ringing in his ears which threw off his equilibrium. In their struggle, Avarice made ground. Its many arms flexed upward, and its hands balled into fists for a final blow.

There was a sound, like something burrowing, that caught his attention. He blinked, and an instantly recognizable silhouette stood before him. The hooded figure garnered the demon’s gaze, and its hollowed eyes followed her as she darted in and out of sight on the battlefield. Avarice chased her with brute force, sweeping at where she stood, only to find that her small, agile frame disappeared before its eyes, then reappeared for another strike.

Mae had no weapons. A hedge mage cast without the power of a staff. Instead, she pushed her palms outward, and the very ground bludgeoned the creature. Boulders flew. Rock formations gathered at its feet and threatened to swallow it whole.

“Who is that?” Neb asked.

“A friend,” he said.

She had Avarice pinned now. Each time it lashed, another arm was swallowed by the ever-growing stones. Before long, the creature’s body had been splayed wide, and its belly exposed.

“Now! We can destroy it if we strike it all at once!” Mae ordered.

Cullen shook off his dizziness and rose. He reached for Neb’s arm and guided her to her feet. She looked up at him and bequeathed a welcoming smile. They simultaneously raised their weapons and made one last, desperate charge.

Stalactites flew toward Avarice in an arrow’s arch, weakening its exoskeleton with every pelt. It took careful dodging to avoid being struck by falling rocks. With ice under his boots and a rain of earth above them, Neb and Cullen aimed their blades, cried out, and drove into the demon’s stomach.

Avarice’s shriek fell like a benediction. It struggled against strike after strike, unable to parry their onslaught of attacks. With another tormented wail, it slumped, dropped its head, and with one last gurgle, its body began to evanesce like grains of sand in a windstorm.

With the demon defeated, Cullen relaxed and took a steady breath. Neb stood at his side and, other than a few cuts, bruises, and a broken mechanical arm, survived the battle.

“Thank the Maker you’re safe,” he said.

“I could have done it without you, you know,” she teased.

“Of that, I’m certain,” he smiled.

When the demon’s body dissolved, another figure wearily kneeled on the ground. Langdon Dupre hung his head, his palms resting in his lap. The possession drained him within an inch of his life. His harsh features had blanched, and blood continued to leak from his wound.

Mae cut between them and stood in front of Lottie’s killer. She was silent, unmoving as if she took in every crystallized detail of the person before her. Then, slowly, she pulled the hood from her head and peered down at him.

“Do you know who I am?” she asked.

Lazily, he raised his head and recognition washed over his face. “Yes,” he whispered.

She was quiet for another moment. “Good.”

She turned to face Neb and Cullen, and Neb gasped. Mae smiled, ever-so-faintly. He half-expected Neb to demand answers, but she remained silent. Perhaps she waited for an opportune moment for the woman to volunteer information, knowing there would be time for explanations later.

“Langdon Dupre,” Mae’s voice grew louder and more commanding. The ground beneath them began to shake. “Your lust for power condemned you. You will be buried alive on this very spot, and your hollow sanctuary will crush your bones and break your skull.”

Mae raised her palms upward in a dark prayer, and the earth split beneath Dupre’s feet. His weakened limbs slipped through the crack, and he scrambled for salvation, clawing before her ankles as her Wilder earth magic swallowed his body whole.

It was over so quickly, the man had barely enough time to make a sound. Mae clasped her palms together, and the ground sealed its seam together once more. A grim silence fell over them.

“I thank you, Healer Trevelyan,” she addressed his wife.

“…How? There is so much I don’t understand,” Neb inquired.

“She rescued me, and helped lead me to you,” Cullen said. “She is also a hedge mage."

“What matters is that we succeeded. And I avenged my daughter,” said Lottie's mother.

Neb took one step and nearly fell. Cullen’s hand gripped her so quickly that all she did was a wobble. He knew she’d overextended herself, emotionally and physically. Cullen rested his hand at the back of her skull and held her body against him.

“It’s over,” she said.

“We did it.”

“Cullen, I want to go home.”

“We will,” he kissed her cheek. "We will."

A yelp distracted him, and Cullen felt a wash of panic once more. He raced to where Griffon’s body landed, just a shadow in the dark. The mabari struggled to move, and as Cullen’s hands caressed his fur, he felt the hot spurt of blood. Griffon’s back leg had splintered, and the exposed bone cut through his skin. When he tried to position his body, he cried out once more.

“Why did you have to go and do that, eh?” Cullen could not keep the grief from his voice. “I didn’t give you an order.”

He gazed at the dog’s aged face, trying to read it in the dark. Griffon blinked slowly and raised his head.

Neb had already begun disassembling her medical pack, pulling out vials of potions and thread for suturing.

“I’ll do what I can, Cullen, but—”

He nodded. Griffon was old. The wound was severe. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the dog’s face. Griffon’s body went limp, and when he gave a long, heavy sigh, Cullen’s hot, silent tears drenched his snout.


	11. Chapter 11

 

“That’s it, now stretch the full length of your arm forward.”

A line formed between Neb’s brows as she concentrated her mana. Cullen sensed the saturated blue lyrium dancing down the length of the arm, feeding into each delicate component. Slowly and methodically, the limb sprang to life and motioned with a renewed sense of vigor. Dagna had outdone herself this time.

“How does it feel?” the dwarven savant asked.

There was no fanfare when they returned. No triumphant march through the streets, waving and smiling to the applause of devoted crowds like the Inquisition days of old. Defeating the demon had been a quiet victory, and the citizens of Riverden paid a price too grim to bear celebrating.

Even so, the following weeks were a flurry of activity. When the news reached Denerim, a drove of inquirers and well-wishers spawned on their doorstep. Neb looked awash with gratitude when Dagna and Sera arrived to supplicate a most generous offer—not before the pair hugged her with unrestrained glee. They permitted her to relax, offering a helping hand while the two of them adjusted to their daily schedule once again. They doted on her in the evenings, encouraging her to eat and drink more, and vied for her attention to tell and retell the tale of her glorious battle against the personification of evil. Neb’s demeanor softened again. She exclaimed, she teased, she commended Dagna on her engineering prowess, and devoted tireless hours to Sera’s new pursuit.

“It’s so much more flexible,” Neb commented.

“Twice as many joints, twice as much lyrium. This new design channels your power like a prism—refracting all these cute little beams of magic into every ball and socket at once for a more fluid movement. Shame I didn’t think of it before. Double shame I couldn’t do much about the weight.”

“Really? I thought it felt lighter.”

“Maybe you just got stronger,” Dagna winked.

That earned a genuine smile from Neb. Not long ago, he would have said that she’d forgotten what a smile was. Upon their return, her weakened body slept for three entire days. She had spent so much time lost in murky chaos, tumbling through tunnels of blackness, buffeted by horrors unforeseen. Once her surge of frost magic waned, her body ran cold, dreadfully cold.

He had been a conscious shadow at her side. When she cried out, he held her. When she shivered, he enfolded her body on his own. When she gasped for air, he placed his mouth against hers and breathed. When she scraped her way back to sentience, he was the first thing she saw. Lying in their bed, guarding her slumber.

“What do you think, Cullen?” Neb asked, flexing the gleaming prosthetic like a posturing strongman.

He leaned in and kissed her gently on the top of her head. “If I could have given you my own arm I would have, though this one is far more stylish.”

His own injuries were freshly healed. Neb ministered them as best as she could, but the pink, jagged scars on his forearms would forever remain. He decided he’d show them with pride, keeping the sleeves on his tunic rolled up. Cullen received many battle scars, but none served as such potent reminders of what could have been lost. They gazed at each other for a moment in silence, content at the moment to just exist. But Cullen could see Neb’s consciousness of the time that had passed and the urge to carry on with important tasks.

“Are you comfortable in the hayloft, Dagna?”

“Oh, yes!” she beamed. “The horses don’t care for all the spark and spook of my lab equipment much, but it’s nice enough for the short-term—until we can find our own home. Oh, maybe someplace with a tower. I’ve always wanted to have a laboratory in a tower. Like in stories?”

“Aren’t those characters usually the deranged villains?” Cullen asked, bemused.

“So I’ll subvert it! The good dwarven scientist. With jars full of good and righteous specimens on the walls. All the quirk, none of the maniacal plotting.”

Neb made an equivocal motion with her head. “You’ll have to work out the logistics with my new apprentice. Speaking of which: Cullen, can you go and check on her?”

“Of course, I—”

“ _Finished_!” The three of them startled at the woodpecker pattering of Sera’s feet. The lithe elf scampered from the clinic to meet them by the table, clutching a red silken ribbon.

“What? You’ve mixed all those spindleweed tonics already?” Neb asked.

“Pfft, no. That’s later.”

“ _Sera_ —”

“Sorry, Inky, but it’s important!”

“What could be so important, then?” she asked, channeling her signature patience. She always tolerated or at least ignored Sera at her worst.

To Cullen’s surprise, Sera draped the ribbon over her palms and carried it over to him with solemnity. He instinctively opened his own palms to receive it. The slippery fabric was of a thick, sturdy weave. A deep shade of crimson embellished with plum colored embroidery. Cullen read the words and felt his eyes begin to glisten.

“This is—"

“I’m sorry, Cullen. So I wanted to get it done sooner, yeah? Then forgot my stupid needles in Denerim,” she stared at her feet. “Thought you’d want it. For Griffon.”

“Normally, when you offer me a surprise, I half-expect there to be a beehive involved. But this…” Cullen ruffled her blonde hair, and she fidgeted under his hand. “I think he’d love it. Thank you.”

“Oi, stop with the cryin’ and go back to bein’ a big, stupid Jackboot. If you cry, then I’ll cry, then Widdle will cry, then I _know_ Inky will cry—if she’s not cryin’ already!”

 Cullen glanced at Neb, whose expression mirrored his own. “Do you want to give it to him now?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, running his thumb over Sera’s haphazard stitching.

“Would you like me to come with you?”

He shook his head. “No, I think this should come solely from his commanding officer.”

She nodded slowly. “Very well. While you do that, Sera can finish her practice with those tonics. I have a few weeks of letters to catch up on.”

Cullen smiled and turned to exit through the back door. He could still hear the three women talking on his way out.

“I made something for you, too, Inky,” said Sera. “A sock.”

“Oh my, thank you. Only the one?”

“Got bored halfway through.”

Summer gave way to crisp autumn. Cullen relished the change in seasons. The crunch of fallen leaves under his boots, the scarlet blush of crabapples, the gilded leaf tips, the renewed scampering of squirrels preparing for hibernation, their cheeks puffed with a hard-earned bounty.

Cullen made his way past the barn to where Griffon rested. “Hey, you,” he spoke softly.

He’d grown fond of this spot for how it overlooked the lush hills and copper treetops. When Cullen reached him, he squared his shoulders, took a chilled breath, and slowly released it.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asked. “It’s plenty warm inside.”

Griffon, who’d been happily enjoying his mid-afternoon nap, raised his head and gave a massive yawn.

“I have something for you. Sit.”

The dog rose with a lengthy stretch and hobbled into a seated position. His wide paws danced for balance in the dry earth. Cullen took a knee and presented Sera’s gift.

“Griffon Trevelyan Rutherford, you are at this moment retired from military service. I award you with this sash to commemorate your heroism, bravery, and perseverance through adversity. Wear it with pride.”

“ _Bark_!”

Griffon lowered his head and Cullen adjusted the sash across the beast’s broad chest. It was a perfect fit, and Sera’s lettering lovingly displayed two words: _Honored Veteran._

“Looks good on you,” he said, stroking the dog’s velveteen head.

Something shifted in the fresh autumn air, a surge of power emanating from the field. It was a presence he’d come to expect. Instead, it was a presence he’d grown fond of. Cullen turned and stood, facing her in the distance. Her black silhouette appeared in stark contrast to the pale grass. He walked toward her, Griffon at his side. His missing hind leg didn’t slow him down, though his gait was still wobbly.

Strangely, he didn’t find Mae frightening any longer. They’d met under extraordinary circumstances, and he had been impressed by her dedication and tenacity, and how that tenacity had galvanized into love.

Her deep, almond-shaped eyes met his, and she offered a curt nod. “The dog is looking well,” she said.

“Three limbs _are_ as good as four. I sense a theme in our household.”

She didn’t laugh, but she watched him with an undisguised interest.

“I came to say farewell.”

“You’re leaving?”

Mae faced the hills to the south. “My mission is complete. It is now time to return to my people. They have been without their shaman for some time.”

“The Chasind named you Shaman?”

“You have seen what I can do. Are you not surprised?” She gave him her dark smile.

“Come inside, at least. Neb would want to say goodbye.”

“She’s a good woman, your Healer Trevelyan. She is honest. But I can’t. There is nothing here for me anymore.”

“ _We_ are here.”

She gave him her dark smile. “It is not so easy a thing to divide oneself between two worlds. I think, harder for me than most. I must commit completely or walk away.”

“Will you ever return?”

She made a slight gesture with her hands. “I do not know what my future holds. But I believe I will see your wife again—to make sure that she’s well and happy and cared for.”

“I will see to it that she is always well and happy and cared for.”

“You love her dearly,” Mae commented. “And she loves you. You both enrich each other in love. The more of it there is around you, the stronger you are.”

“The same could be said for anyone.”

“Not me,” she said. “My love must be guarded. Which is why I only parcel it out to a select few people.”

“We have come to care for _you_ , too.”

Mae pursed her thin mouth. “That may fade, over time. When I move on, and you forget.”

“I don’t think so. We could never forget you. Just as we could never forget your daughter.”

Her eyes lowered, and her dark cheeks were awash in a faint rosy pink. “Then think of me fondly in my absence, Cullen, when you think of me. And know that you and your wife will always have a home among my people.”

“And know that you will always have friends in South Reach.”

“Friends,” she repeated. “The spirits tell me that you have many. A Grey Warden. An Enchantress. A Viscount.”

“And a Shaman.”

She did not lay her hand on his shoulder or offer a parting embrace. Mae was not a woman of casual affection, but her expression was warm as she turned from him, without uttering another word, and paced away with her black cloak billowing in the wind. Cullen and Griffon stayed in place, watching her silhouette fade into the distance until he blinked, and she’d vanished from sight.

Neb was busy at her vanity when he returned sometime later, nose burrowed in a beautifully scripted letter.

“Who is it from?” he asked.

“It’s a letter from Josie,” she said. “Looks like Yvette managed to procure a new ship for their trading fleet by attempting to seduce its Captain. And Antoine has signed the contract on a new mill. They’re thinking of expanding their business. Oh, and Cullen—she is coming to visit in two weeks!”

“It has been a while since we’ve welcomed the Lady Ambassador.”

“She warned us not to be alarmed,” Neb said, and Cullen raised his eyebrow in consternation. “She writes that she cut her hair.”

“And here I assumed she’d be bringing some dashing rogue of immeasurable wealth that I’d be expected to entertain.”

“Maker forbid,” Neb smiled. “Though I know you’d do it anyway because it would make Josie happy. And when Josie’s happy, your wife is also happy.”

“I know what I signed up for when I married you,” he said. When Lady Montilyet and Neb first met, they made a pact that no gentleman would ever interfere with their friendship. Ten years later, and the two women had not forsaken their bond.

Neb put the letter down and rose from her stool. Cullen followed her to the kitchen where she gazed out the window.

“Sera is coming along nicely, all things considered. She always had a proclivity for mixing potions and tonics. Frankly, I’m still so humbled that she offered to be my apprentice.”

“She has always been full of surprises. I know she’ll make a fine healer.”

“Just not one with the best bedside manner.”

“If anyone can teach that girl to have more patience, it’s you. Besides, when has she not taken life seriously when it counted?”

“You’re right. My husband is so wise.”

He approached her from behind and hugged his arms around her waist. “And my wife is so beautiful and kind.”

Together, they watched the sky transition from a midday blue to a lavender twilight. Cullen’s thumb lovingly traced the soft flesh over her ribs. Then, in the silence, Neb’s body went slack, and she breathed a heavy sigh.

“What’s wrong?” Cullen asked.

“Lottie’s murderer is dead. Some days I’m grateful I didn’t kill him, and other days I feel sorry for it,” she tensed in his embrace. “Cullen, I cannot shake the anger inside of me. In the blackest of nights, I still find discomfort in knowing that it wasn’t my magic that brought his end.”

He rested his cheek against her hair. “You are warranted that anger, but his death was not meant for your hands. Besides, if you took it upon yourself to kill every cruel person in this world, there would be scarcely anyone left alive,” he said.

“I know.”

“You helped a grieving mother make her peace, and that counts for something.”

“Maybe so. But it will take time,” she said.

She leaned her back against his chest, and he buried his nose in her laissez-faire locks. He’d never tire of her scent. “You can take all the time you need.”

 “You know, I never thanked you.”

“For what?”

Reaching blindly, Neb’s hand found his cheek. He loved the feel of her dainty fingers mapping the hollows of his face. “For not giving up on me.”

As always, her body against his refueled him. He absorbed her warmth the way a flower fed on sunlight, and a renewed energy kicked through his weary bones. He shifted her in his arms, locked his hands at her lower back, and pressed his mouth to hers.

“Then it is I who should be thanking you. I learned true perseverance because _you_ never gave up on _me_.”

“You mean the lyrium?”

“That is one part of it,” he responded.

“Anyone with half a heart would have supported you, Cullen. I think you exaggerate my actions because I bewitched you.”

“I take offense to that,” he said, smiling. “No magic kindled my affection for you.”

“Then why stay with me all these years if not for sorcery?” she teased.

“Because you always had my heart. You merely returned it to me one day.”

Her smiled widened. She hummed contentedly and rested her head against his shoulder. Cullen held her tighter against him, reveling in the warmth of her soft skin.

“Neb,” he said. “All those years ago, what was it that made you fall in love with me?”

“Hmm. Do you remember that day in the gardens, when you asked me to play chess?”

“I’ll never forget it.”

“I saw how eagerly you were trying to change. Until that point, the Cullen I knew would never have offered. All I ever asked of people was honesty and effort. From that day on, those were all you ever gave me. It endeared me to you, I think.”

As if he could not love her more. He placed a fervent kiss on her temple, her cheek, her jaw, her neck. The heat of her body soaked through his clothes and warmed his chest. It was as if he’d been dipped in gold, as if the very air shimmered when he breathed. He heard Sera tinkering in the clinic and Dagna toying away on one of her contraptions in the barn. Griffon slumbered lazily outside, but in the main room of their home, the two of them were alone.

“There is something I have meant to show you,” he said.

“Oh?”

He released his arms and motioned to a dining chair. “First, I need you to have a seat. And close your eyes.”

“Cullen—”

“No foolishness, I promise.”

Neb strode to the chair, took a seat, and placed her palms flat in her lap. She turned to him one more time, and he nodded, so she shut her eyelids and faced forward once more.

Gingerly, Cullen made his way to the harp resting in the corner of the room, which had been affectionately polished and tuned. Its new care hadn’t been enough to give him away. He’d frequently ordered its maintenance in the name of preservation. When he took a seat at the stool, he studied her expression—a blend of excitement and alarm. And trust. His heart swelled with love.

"Are your eyes still closed?" he asked.

"Yes."

“Very well.”

After positioning his fingers, he plucked the first chord. Cullen couldn’t play and gauge her reaction at the same time, instead devoting all his concentration into delivering the least abysmal performance he could muster. His form was terrible, but he'd had little time to practice. It was an original melody, one of the ones she'd written on her journeys with the Inquisition. A hauntingly simple song that was both exultant and despairing, inspired by a man standing at the precipice of change.

Cullen knew his tempo was off, but he persevered, concentrating on each chord while plotting how to maneuver his hand to the next. He couldn’t imitate Neb’s expert vocal descent. He took the final arpeggios slowly before he flourished the song's end with a hearty strum across all its strings.

He looked over to see Neb's delighted expression.

“Your song,” she said.

“A bastardized version of it, at any rate.”

“You remembered.”

He gripped the back of his neck. “It always provided comfort when a prayer could not. I'll never be as nimble as you, but I thought—was that all right?"

She nodded her head up and down vigorously, but then, to his surprise, shook it from side to side. "No."

He swallowed heavily. "...No?"

Neb’s fingers tugged at the harness that held her prosthetic arm in place, letting it clank onto the table lifelessly as she rose from her seat and raced toward him. Cullen caught her in a tight embrace, feeling utterly bewildered.

"It was _perfect_ ," she whispered.


	12. Epilogue

_The Hooded Woman, a Riverden Ghost Tale_

On the hill of Riverden's cemetery rests a grave, but the name has long since faded. Nobody can remember whose ashes reside within, but legend has it that when the summer rains start to fall, a stalwart figure faces the headstone. It is that of a hooded woman, fragile and thin, bowing her head in reverence.

Some have claimed to approach the entity, but in doing so felt an overwhelming grief. It is said that when The Hooded Woman ghosts the graveyard, maidens far and wide are compelled to weep, and the village will erupt with the sounds of suffering. Others have added that the specter filled them with a sense of serenity, as if they became enveloped by a familiar, warm embrace.

Members of the merchant's guild, a suspicious lot, insist that the woman mourns at the grave of her betrothed who succumbed to a terrible illness the night before their wedding. Local barkeeps suggest that she is nothing more than an opportunistic grave robber taking advantage of the weather to relieve headstones of their offerings. To be sure, Riverden folk fear the being, not knowing whether she is a bringer of benevolence or bitterness.

A group of well-read scholars trust the chronicled words of the Inquisitor Trevelyan herself, whose historic clinic remains a treasured landmark on the outskirts of the village—and who is recorded to have had a personal encounter with the spirit.

"Do not fear The Hooded Woman,” said the Inquisitor. “She embodies a love most pure: that of a mother for her daughter."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for joining me on a part of my journey.
> 
> To the real Lottie, whose name has been changed, I think of you every day. I want those thoughts to encompass the good times. I want only to remember summers in the orchard. Hiking trips. Pizza dates. Disney movies. Discount haircuts. Matching lunch boxes. But the truth is, I can't divorce the Lottie I loved from the Lottie whose name was brandished across news headlines. I think the horrors to which you succumbed. I think of your mother, looking so frail and weary in the front pew. 
> 
> Above all, I think of the amazing doctor you would have become.
> 
> There will never be justice for you. Rest in peace, my friend. My angel. You are the lotus that blooms in the mud.


End file.
